


Lion(heart)

by 784



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29735073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/784/pseuds/784
Summary: Grahnye de Brún, 25, is broke.Eldigan Nordion, 26, is grieving.
Relationships: Eltshan | Eldigan/Grahnye





	1. Her, Him

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a repost of my old (deleted) archive with a few edits here and there, and deals with grieving and depression themes, so please proceed cautiously.
> 
> I give Grahnye Irish surname because there's a chance that 'Grahnye' is a corrupted(?) spelling of the Irish name Grainne. The game gave us very little glimpse of her and I'd like to explore that further in my fic(s) so here's a modern AU interpretation of her.
> 
> I miss my Lionheart family.

Grahnye de Brún pulls her car into the basement.

The car machine slowly dies down after grunting like an old heavy smoker, making her eyebrow twitch. She exhales, recalling the trip from her modest apartment to the office, costing her a great deal of anxiety when her brake nearly gave up. She was lucky—very lucky. The traffic came into a halt because of a red light. Taking advantage of her own rear window, she quickly applied the lipstick she did not have the chance to and made a quick, neat roll of her hair into a bun, securing it with her favorite red ribbon as always. The rush hour is a tough one in her area—cars honk at each other like knights of the old age are willing to unhorse one another on a jousting match. She has watched windows at the driver’s seat being pulled, revealing red-faced angry drivers shouting at each other or even mumbling some threats with a cuss word with a free middle-finger.

She has never done that. Either a virtue or a curse, usually it is the other way around—she is the one on the receiving end, mostly because of her weary old car and her careful driving. One time some people hesitated to yell at her thinking an old person was behind the wheel. But when she pulled down her window exactly to ask if she could be of any help to the staggering car beside her, the driver glared so angrily that she thought her heart leaped into her throat.

Since then, she never lets her window down at the street.

Patience is a virtue, people said. And perhaps that is true. She considers herself a cool-headed person. It takes a while until something, someone—manages to burn her fuse, and she is so used to swallowing her grieve back. Being angry is exhausting, she believes. Being angry takes a toll—and despite knowing it, often times she really hates herself for retorting to tears pretty easily once the anger piles up inside.

And that happened during that incident. Such explosive anger shocked her more than it angered her, and her mind raced quickly as she slowly pulled her window up again. Her hands trembled in shock and she reached for her go-to pastilles for some calming sense as the furious driver sped off, again earning yet another loud honk from cars behind her as she struggled rummaging through her purse. She inhaled and exhaled, counting in between like her therapist advised her. Slowly she started driving again, playing her favorite radio station which filled its airing time with oldies, if not jazz and classical music.

She is like that. She always is.

And now that she has pulled into the basement, she can take some deliberate time to recheck on herself. She pins a brooch on her cardigan, taking a box containing her glasses from her purse for a quick reach. She will need it for sure, when she is back to her typical cubicle, facing spreadsheets and actual papers upstairs. The car makes another heavy sigh when she finally kills off the machine, taking out her ignition key and returning it into her purse.

“Poor car. I’m sorry, that will be all for the morning…” she slowly pats the bonnet, now even feels hotter than usual every time she ends a trip. Various cars begin pouring into the basement, occupying lanes to her right and left. Some people come out of their cars, giving her a weird look. Blushing, she quickly removes her hand from the bonnet, slinging her purse into the crook of her elbow and makes a gesture of fixing her cardigan and the hem of her skirt.

She hears some people holding back laughter, and she sighs—again. Turning her head sharply, she puts up her professional face, smiling with tight lips. “Good morning.”

“Oh, morning!” they wave back at her. “Finally out of the hospital?”

“Yeah,” she replies, skeptically eying them. Her other hand clutches on her breakfast bread while the other is busy with a cup of coffee she picked up before driving here. It is frustrating, having to put up a guard each time people ask about her condition. She has long accepted that she is indeed frail, easily getting sick and exhausted when physical activities become more demanding. In the morning she has taken her cardigan with her because showering made her feel cold, something she is still adjusting after her release from the hospital two days ago.

Sparing a courteous nod she tails behind them as they rush to get to the elevator.

“Are you coming in or not?”

“D-don’t run…” she squeaks, nearly tripping on her shoes. Her voice is soft and they shake their heads, a gesture she is way, way too familiar with. The pity she never asked… alright, perhaps she did, but not like this. She would rather call it an understanding rather than pity. The irony is that she cannot even have either. Supposedly pity makes people to be kinder to her. And yet there they are, only shaking heads with the kind of stare like a shared consensus among themselves that understanding equals pity in the sense of… leaving her behind.

At first she did not notice. When other kids stopped playing with her after they realized she ran out of breath easily and how bruises remained longer on her skin compared to other kids, she figured all she had to be was becoming a stronger kid. So instead of shying away, she kept pushing, pushing, until her body gave up that she came down with a fever after following other kids to play under the rain.

Nobody helped her when she tumbled. Nobody seemed to realize that she put a considerable effort just to follow the other kids, just to be like them, just to do the things they did at ease. They commented how frail and useless she was instead of noting how she had run and played for hours with them, challenging her own limitations because she never went through such a mile before. And as confused as she was, she bit back her tongue when her parents picked her up from the school’s infirmary, sad and disappointed that she potentially harmed herself just because of some taunt.

“I just wanted to be free like everyone else,” she replied meekly at that time. Neither her father nor mother spoke on their ride back home, although that night they apologized when tucking her to bed.

At that time, she was even more confused because they apologized. But throughout the rest of her childhood they never made any comment when she came home bruised or nearly fainted like one time when she tried to pick a sport as a hobby.

Grahnye watches as the elevator closes before her. She still manages to catch muffled laughter from the inside, however, with someone mentioned they should be kinder to her because being kind to grandmothers is basic decency.

She blinks. She has heard ‘slowpoke’, ‘glass bones’, and even ‘conceited’ because some kids back then assumed the worst of her just for staying inside the classroom most of the time—but being called a grandmother like this is new.

She clutches her purse tighter than usual, somehow being reminded of the term ‘late Christmas cake’ with some of her own peers already putting down payment for their first house with a significant other. Perhaps there is indeed a first time for everything, the way she, for the first time as well, notices that there is no ring on her finger, and her phone is mostly quiet all the time.

Taking a good look at the mirrored wall inside the elevator, she slowly unknots her ribbon, letting her hair loose and setting the favorite red piece inside her purse. _Matronly,_ she thinks sadly, cupping her upper chest with her hand as she heaves. But she did not come there to look like a fresh vampire who just sucked a victim’s blood dry—she came to work and perhaps got the HRD to help her claim her health insurance after those hospital nights. But… ‘grandma’. Matronly—

Grahnye inhales again when her elevator reaches her floor. Her car needs beauty shop more than her.

********

  


He sits straight inside the spacious office room. His eyebrows twitch a little bit upon hearing the newest message he received on the phone. It is too early to be surprised like this, he contemplates, because the morning has changed from a one to a ten in a heartbeat. Watching his own reflection on the newly-starting monitor, somehow he wishes the computer broke.

He breathes slowly when the monitor finally comes to. It still has the same starting screen—that of a Windows 7 Ultimate with the same familiar photo and name as an icon because his father couldn't be assed to upgrade to Windows 10. Without thinking anything else, his hand stretches forward, gently touching the icon with his fingertips.

He needs some moments of silence to compose himself before continuing.

Everything from last week slowly replays in his mind like an old, outdated projector playing some sinister scenes nobody even asked for. After dropping his sister to her school for some extracurricular activities, he rushed back to the hospital to check on his father.

It happened in what felt like a blaze to him. A week ago nurses informed him that his father, hospitalized in a VIP section of the hospital, was showing signs of recovery after undergoing the best care and treatment they could try. If everything went well as planned, they were about to take off the oxygen mask his father had on him after some breathing trouble in the last few days within said week. But right when he was about to softly knock into the hospital room, a certain lamp lighted in the corridor.

It flashed in blue.

He barely had the chance to pocket his keys and phone when nurses rushed into the hospital room he intended to visit. Shortly after a standby doctor followed suit, running like trying to win an impossible race that her stethoscope was still dangling on her neck instead of being fixed on her ears.

His stomach churned. That couldn’t be, he thought at that time. The rooms were close to each other, so it could be… something else. Someone else. And blue—respiration and heart which stop working.

He wished he did not need to know those things. Sadly he knew, after driving his father personally a couple of times for all the check-ups, controls, and eventually loaded him into the room himself. He had seen the light flashed and blinked in various colors, and each time it happened, it was someone else. He had spent some time outside when nurses and doctors performed checks on his ailing father, exchanging words with nearby staffers rather than having to hear his father’s heavy breathing as they tested him. Rather than having to look into his sister’s eyes each time she was there with him when the checks occurred—because he knew what she asked despite not voicing it loud.

“Is Papa going to make it, Eldie?”

His answer grew weaker and more uncertain as the days passed by. And each time he got there, his father always asked how their company fared, and he would be forced to steer the conversation into that formal, boss and vice-boss talk. There were days when he felt like tugging on his father so hard, to scream at him demanding some moments of public display of weakness instead of coughing while talking to him with spreadsheet in hand and a calculator in another. He wanted to hear his father giving up—not because it would give him sadistic pleasure, but to finally see the human, the feeble man he was. Two nights before that fateful day his father had another different spreadsheet and sealed envelopes in his hands, which he retrieved from the drawer near the bed. His voice staggered and weak that he nearly lost his composure to truly yell at the older man to take it easy because— _darn it,_ he was not going anywhere, and he could not care less if the company went down in flames if it meant the older man’s recovery.

He used to tease his father by comparing him to a lion—tough and unyielding, stern in public but loving in private the way the older man raised him. He demanded formal and polished manner when they were out in public, but in-person, the lion threw his dignified, authoritative demeanor miles away to pamper him. The older lion sent him to the best school and shaped him into a man he thought befitting his idea of a paragon knight—strong, enduring, with sharp mind but possessing a gentle heart. One time after finishing his piano lesson, his father was back with a little girl in his hand—eyes averted from his as the older lion mumbled, in a rather deferring manner compared to the unyielding mastery he had displayed so far—the little girl was called Lachesis, and she was to live there with them as his sister.

He had no sister. At least these years he believed he did not.

But like the ideal knight that he was, he kept his mouth shut, half feeling anxious and another half glad to have a companion he never had. The big house started to feel emptier the older he got, and Lachesis stuck with him like no other ever since.

And that moment in the hospital, he had expected similar demeanor from his father—akin to that unusually quiet afternoon when he brought back Lachesis home. Instead, he had to deal with something else—assets. Assets in envelopes the older lion had compiled, casually handing it to him.

“What are these?” he had asked, voice slightly louder than usual.

“My fortune,” his father replied in the dignified manner mirroring himself.

“No,” he _glared_ at the older man, suddenly wanting to crumple all those paper stacks in his grip. “We will sort this out and you will rest and I—I shall have none of it.”

“Do not fret, Eldigan. You are my son—my eldest child too,” the older lion glared back. “I have prepared them for a while now. It is all for you to manage now. You are the new Lionheart.”

“I do not understand,” his voice croaked and weak instead of the roar he wished for a moment ago.

“My will. Do you now?”

“Papa!”

“Come here, Eldie,” the older lion whispered, reaching for him. “Listen—I’m not getting any better. Not even if you were to break this drawer clean with your bare hands. I only did what is necessary there, my son. For our family, you, and then Lachesis. Promise me you will treasure her—the thought of being unable to treasure her late mother alone is enough to keep me awake at night.”

“Papa…”

“Mister Nordion?”

He gasps softly. He must have whispered the name unknowingly, with his fingertips still brushing against the monitor. Everything was so dark and bleak after that—with him making various, repeated phone calls here and there to arrange the older lion’s funeral because his half-sister had been too distraught for anything else.

So he let her be, processing the grief in her own terms as she saw fitting. He was close to point out that her grades were falling, but seeing the dark circles under her eyes every morning she joined him for breakfast, he kept his mouth shut. He was the lion now, the eldest, all his father’s pride and joy. And he decided to act like that, even if simply to treasure his father’s fondest memory of him.

“Yes?”

A face peeks in. He recognizes the newcomer as one of the triplets his father hired years ago, and now directly working under him. To his best friends, he dubs the triplets as the fixer because back then they were tasked with almost everything—running his father’s sheets, calculation—and even acting as Lachesis’ driver and guards when needed.

“Sorry for being a bother this early, Mister N,” says the brown-haired man which he then recognizes as Alva, the oldest of the triplets. Alva runs his thumb over his chin, anxiously eying him. “We received a call from the law firm. You know, regarding…”

He sighs.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Alva mutters sympathetically, gently placing his coffee on the desk. “If you are not ready to talk to lawyers, I understand. I’ll reject them on behalf of you.”

He stares at the screen. He has not even logged on; the icon—the photo of his father is still there. He knows the password. Before dying the old lion has been so detailed in all his letters and will as if knowing his absence will strike his family like a vicious thunder. Perhaps that is why the letters specifically cited certain matters only he could attend to, and not Lachesis. Or perhaps because he just doted on the girl, like him. Perhaps because Lachesis was only eighteen and needing to concentrate on university for the upcoming academic year. Perhaps because…

_What an absolute honor to be trusted,_ he clenches his fist. 

His eyes travel on the keyboard again. Normally it takes only seconds for him to input the password. He has done that many times even before the late lion got to detail everything in his letters. Closing his eyes, he recalls all the whims which his father would call him there for—still fresh in his mind how the old lion would panic over some click bait news and targeted ads, thinking they were being spied on. Still fresh in his mind how his late father watching on Eve as their head technician drained all the malwares and viruses out of the computer. Still fresh in his mind how he could not resist a chuckle when his father straight-up asked if Eve exorcised his computer that way. Still fresh in his mind as well when he half-scolded his father not to deliberately click on everything or be aware of deceptive sites.

_What an absolute honor to be trusted…_

His fingers stop over the keyboard, with the sinking feeling in his chest that—yes, the old lion truly was gone now. That he got to sit there because the former occupant was gone, leaving him to head their company, to face their partners and rivals, to use this blasted computer alone.

Suddenly he misses his father’s calls. Clenching his fist once again he waits for the typical familiar voice trying hard to speak in a dignified manner although the eyes would give him a childish wary look—“Eldie, why did this one say single ladies in the area want to talk to me?”

And he would shake his head, gently putting down the paper he was concentrating on before crossing the connecting door from his own office room to reach for his father’s presidential suit. And he would try not to laugh when his father insisted he parted ways with his exes peacefully, that he was aware romance would be too much to handle at that age and… wealth.

“It can’t be me,” his father said one time after he tried to tell him for the hundredth time that—no, there was no such a thing as single ladies trying to turn him into a babe-magnet. “It has to be you.”

And again he would sullenly retire to his own office room because his father asked if he had found someone yet. He tried telling him that he had his best friends, anyway—Quan Claus and Sigurd Chalphy, promising stars in their own jobs and treasured people in their own family. And the old lion would laugh boisterously, making him to bend so the former could reach his mane to ruffle it.

“You talked like a boy. Time to think like a man.”

He purposefully did not come inside when his father complained about random poker invitations next.

He ponders one more time, trying to bring his fingers over the keyboard, reciting the familiar password he has known since forever. Only he knows the password besides the old lion—despite Lachesis’ familiar presence in the office sometimes, she never knows, and neither do the triplets despite being his father’s closest aides for the time being.

_What an absolute honor to be trusted…_

He sighs. Again.

_And an absolute dread to be._

“I’ll leave you alone if it makes you feel better,” Alva speaks after hesitatingly runs his hand over his back, rubbing it trying to give him some sense of solace he desperately needs. He tried. He tried evaporating it somewhere else—the gym where he could take advantage of the nice sandbags with Sigurd because his best friend is also a proficient kickboxer like him, or even to the fencing arena with Quan, who holds the same membership like his on some specific HEMA school near the law firm; he, trained in long sword, versus Quan, a more than capable polefighter.

And he failed still.

“No. Do not go,” he barks when Alva begins to leave. “I mean…”

“I’m just a call away, Mister N,” he says knowingly. “For anything. Really, anything. The late boss treated me and my brothers like family.”

“I hope I keep the tradition going,” he tries to lighten the air around him.

“I’m sure you will,” Alva returns the line in a comforting, kind manner before closing the doors.

_It is just typing a password,_ he thinks again. Bringing down his fingers once again, the smiling icon that is his father’s photo invades his mind, forcing him to relish the happier days where that was what he would find every time he got to see the late lion, instead of tubes, bottled medicines, prescribed meal menu and lastly some ugly monitor doing its ugly things until the line fell flat.

_“_ _One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three—Lord God, he is gone so fast.”_

_“…_ _Are you kidding me?”_

_“_ _I am sorry, but…”_

_“_ _Then I’ll do it myself—breathe, Papa, in the name of our ancestor!”_

_“_ _Stop it, Eldie!”_

_“_ _Step aside, Lachesis!”_

_“_ _Eldie!”_

_“_ _Step aside I said!”_

_“_ _Eldie, you cannot hit a nurse!”_

_“_ _Then they should bring back Papa instead of blabbering all these thousand-nonsense!”_

_“_ _Eldie! Eldie, stop, I’m begging you…”_

He recalls weakly dropping the defibrillator, with Lachesis quickly jumped over him, tackling him in a tight hug, messily sobbing into his chest. He recalls his visiting best friends’ deathly worried expressions which followed shortly after—Sigurd pulling him back while Quan putting some muscles, tightly griping on his shoulder, patting his cheeks desperately trying to make him process what just happened. He recalls Lachesis whispering that the old lion is gone—gone, gone, gone—not on a business trip as always, nor to visit and fool around with her mother either. And only when the bed was emptied with his best friends gently ushering Lachesis outside that he hammered his fists against the floor, sobbing.

That might be the last time they saw him completely losing his composure like that. His best friends checked up on him every day after that, and he found his responses to be flat—flat like the crepes Lachesis brought home for him, flat like the clothing iron their domestic worker pressed on their clean laundry. Flat like his expression, like the sewer rat he accidentally smashed with his car for driving with clouded mind. Flat like how his nose felt after bumping into a wall drunk.

_It’s just a darn password,_ he thinks again.

But the password—the password—akin to what the late lion whispered in his deathbed—

_myprideeldie_

He sighs, taking one last good look at the monitor. “Alva, we need a new computer for this room,” he says flatly. “And we’ll just need to take the hard disk drive out and run it separately. Or transfer everything to the new computer—I trust Eve can do that.”

“I’m sure he can, but…”

“And I’ll get back with the law firm. But before this, I…” sighing, he cups his face, grabbing his keys once again. “… I need a drink.”

“Understood,” Alva mumbles, warily eying him when the new boss bumps against the door. Two days ago the old lion left the world. Two days ago the new boss told his sister that she could do everything she pleased as long as it wasn’t foolish or dangerous—name something, he’d just get it for her, no question asked. He told her to cry again and again, to barge into his room if necessary, to interrupt him working—everything, everything to make her feel better.

The new lion never gave himself a chance to grieve.

********

  


She clicks her tongue, shooting murderous look at the air conditioner swinging chilling breeze at the left corner above her head. How many times does she need to tell everyone that constant exposure to the unforgiving, cold, man-made, ozone-corrupting Freon machine like this withers her away like the Earth’s violated atmosphere? Oh, right—they never listened. It is sure one of her whims again—the sunlight is too strong, the chilly air is too cold… “Next time just say the water is too watery,” one of them rolls their eyes. “I mean, you probably need to try harder.”

She did. Which is why she never turned down piling paperwork and assignments meant for her. Which is why she will always answer work-related emails whenever she sees one, regardless of what time and whether it came on a Saturday. She never turned down an overtime. And exactly because she wanted to show that she is more than a chaining ball to everyone’s ankles that the last project and tender magnificently landed her on one of the hospital beds, getting one-punched by typhoid fever.

Eying everyone else like a coyote, she grabs a nearby remote control, slowly adjusting the temperature. Muffling her sneezing, she tightens her cardigan, downing the packed herbal tea she brewed for herself at the office’s pantry, smirking a little bit as she turns back her attention on her computer. A calculator is there with a piece of paper—always, because she always double-checks. Minute by minute ticks with her craning her neck here and there, warily gauging everyone’s expression to see if a disgruntled soul will raise an objection out of being deprived of the honor that is freezing to death out of North Pole-level cold air conditioner.

There is not.

Everyone keeps their zombie-face looks, concentrating on their monitor like her. Nobody bats an eye. Perhaps mornings are too precious to be spent on initiating civil war with the office mate sitting closest to you—there is afternoon with that, especially after everyone sneaks into the pantry for a second cup of coffee with the boss dumping extra task unannounced.

She breathes relief, slowly tugging off her cardigan to drape over her chair. Humming softly, her fingers make a simple ballet over the calculator while her pen dances on the paper. In a short time—at least faster compared to other people, anyway—she has finished the spreadsheet. Taking her glasses off to rub her eyes and nose bridge, she smiles, feeling a little bit of solace. Her work is her pride. At least despite being the alleged fashion disaster that she is, there is no problem with her work so far, so…

“Why the hell is it so freaking hot here?!”

She cocks her head to look around. One of her coworkers—the same person who left her at the elevator is making a dramatic entry after returning from the bathroom. Ignoring his whims, she puts back her glasses, facing her monitor. Her watch says it is already twelve, and just a little bit more she will have finished the morning workload, faster compared to her other coworkers.

She makes a distinctive surprised sound when a hand flies to her side, snatching the remote control she forgot to put back. “Oh, it’s you. Should have thought,” said coworker hisses as he grabs the small device back, adjusting the temperature back, back, back…

She begins to frown. That is lower than the original setting, and she shakes her head, clicking her tongue once again. If Elliot Heirhein wants to be petty, then she is not interested in interrupting him from making a fool of himself. “I’m off for lunch,” she gets up from her chair, turning off her monitor before grabbing her purse. Shivering a little because the cold air conditioning breeze pricks into her bones, her feet staggers again when she gets out from the cubicle. “Does anyone want anything?”

Her doctor advised her to lay low for at least three days more, but…

“Oh, so previously you stole the remote and now finishing early.”

She rolls her eyes. “Elliot, I’m not even stealing and yes, I finished early.”

“I got scolded by Grandma,” he fumes. “Well, perhaps you should stop subjecting other people into the misery you created for the sake of your convenience. You already have that cardigan.”

“My clothes are not your concern,” she keeps walking without deigning him a proper reply. Her low-heeled strap-flats make tame sounds across the corridors. The walk to the elevator is short, and some of the late lunch-goers like her nod when they pass by each other. Still, the ride down there is silent, and she cannot help but feeling a bit sour when people go in groups or pairs before dispersing to nearby eateries around the office she works at. She watches her cardigan Elliot pointed out prior. Spring brings warmer climate, something better than the choking cold winter. But she just recovered from a sickness, and the air around her still feels a little bit too much to handle. Taking the cardigan off to grant herself some sense of… normalcy, she brings her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

Her head feels swinging a little bit.

_Damn this body,_ she thinks, opening her umbrella. Passing through an ocean of people around her, she thinks she catches a glimpse of Elliot who rushes outside to grab a lunch.

“Stuck-up,” she hears a couple of people crowding around Elliot mumbling.

“Perhaps she thinks herself as a princess,” Elliot snickers. “Anything for Grandma.”

She wonders how many umbrella swings it will take before they have to call the cops on her out of attempted murder, with Elliot bleeding profusely, getting concussion as he lies still on the ground. Exhaling, she throws her hair behind her shoulders.


	2. You Need Help

He folds his arms impatiently. The elevator ride should only take some meager minutes until he gets to land himself on the floor he is supposed to visit. The building interior is elegant, and despite the soft fragrant smell from the spray they are using for the elevator, nothing can make him stop tapping his foot impatiently against the floor. His watch, an elegant Akibros XXIV Alligator with a brown leather strap, tells him it is around ten.

He truly has no intention to go back to his office before lunch time. If anything, he deliberately picked the time just so he can find something to eat… something calming later on, perhaps. His stomach makes a faint sound, prompting him to purse his lips into a wry smile.

Right when he wants to forget, his body there just needs to be a traitor by reminding him that he had nothing to eat in the morning. He would want to argue because he considered the Jack Daniels shots he took at night as a meal. He would want to keep arguing that he was not truly left without food because he had taken two more shots of said whiskey in the morning—three and probably five if Lachesis did not catch him sitting alone in their living room with the television on, with something playing he did not even know what anymore.

Lachesis saw the nearly-empty bottle and took it away from him without saying anything.

He sighs again. Eldigan Nordion, Papa’s pride, a lion in his full right and might at the ripe age of twenty—

… Hold on, how old is he again?

He weakly slams his fist against the elevator. His mind is killing him with all the repressed grieves that for a moment he could not even recall if he already had his birthday or not. Alright, twenty-six; let’s just settle there without details. He does not want to rekindle the number, anyway—thinking of his own birthday will force him to think about the departed lion. It is his father; he cannot escape.

Cannot escape…

Eldigan Nordion, Papa’s pride, a lion in his full right and might at twenty-six silently disappointed the sister he is supposed to care for by flirting closely enough with alcoholism.

The elevator stops with a simple _ding!_ sound.

Suddenly he feels so small. He feels so small, intimidated, insignificant, inadequate—akin to those old days when he stepped into his first piano lesson, the first day when he stepped into the gym to begin training in kickboxing, the first day when he started his school. But during those first moments Papa would always be there, holding his hand in his in that familiar unchanging manner—strong and tough as if transferring everything that he was to him, closing the door behind him with a simple message…

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

He repeats the magic words now, as a grown man. Again, at the ripe age of twenty-six, Eldigan Nordion, too angry to be angry and too sad to bawl his eyes out, Papa’s pride, nearly descends into alcoholism and wants to jump out of this building for being more scared than a scaredy cat.

Perhaps the only way to stop being afraid is just by keep doing it until one cannot feel anything anymore.

“Do not be afraid, Eldie,” he whispers to himself. He was seven when Papa took him for the piano lesson; seven was Lachesis too when Papa enrolled her for the violin class. He was six when Papa took him for his first class of kickboxing. Lachesis was six when Papa introduced her to HEMA swords, after he and Quan chilled in his house, tired but proud, winning their first medals in swordsmanship competition. They went to school together the next morning, boys age fourteen fearless and proud.

But grief is not an opponent in flesh and blood he can hammer with a hook knee kick.

“I’m sorry, are you getting out or not?”

He startles a little. A woman in neat tailored suit looks at him, half-annoyed because he has been doing nothing but folding his arms, tapping his foot, exhaling and inhaling too many times to remember. He mumbles a quick apology to her, stepping outside, throwing his sling bag across his shoulder. _This feels like a torment,_ he thinks again. He takes a considerable distance from the woman as she enters the elevator as if trying to communicate that—no, she has nothing to be afraid of him; he is not a creep.

 _I cannot do this,_ his mind races again. Perhaps he forgot to polish his oxfords at home. Is this shirt even ironed at all? Maybe he buttoned everything messily. What color is his vest again? Did he roll the sleeves? Is he wearing a tie? Is his belt unbuckled? Oh, dear Lord—that woman probably thought he was grade-A level creepy. His pants are zipped, right?

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

He touches his collar.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

His fingers travel to feel the buttons under; not sure if he is happy or a bit disappointed since… his anxiety is unfounded because his buttons are in order.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

Has Lachesis truly woken up now? In the morning Lachesis asked if he could call the school for her after he gently peeled his grief-stricken sister off the bathroom floor—messily sobbing and bawling without answering any call that he truly, literally had to kick the door open to check on her. Drowning her into his protective chest Lachesis incoherently talked about how it felt like a loose trigger because Papa’s last gift for her—an expensive eau de toilette from Miletos—accidentally fell on her when she was about to brush her teeth. She had asked him to not come to work today. And he reasoned exactly because it was Monday that he had to get through what Papa left behind to smooth things out.

Lachesis whimpered. And he left after fixing her blanket, kissing her forehead, promising to call her school saying she was sick, promising to be her partner-in-crime today. And he could not answer when Lachesis blatantly pointed out how he grew a beard, how he looked like a stranded person, and that he should eat something—with this something had better be not whiskey.

He only said he would shave, which he did.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

Perhaps it is better if he would be the one having a breakdown like Lachesis. At least something would pour out that way, free from its confinement that he got to be free as well. He normally does not giddily swear at people, but when another driver cut his lane on the way to the law firm, he rolled down his window like millions out there, swore like a roaring lion that the other driver had to hit the brake because of how scared he made him. And he hated to admit it felt good. It would even be better if this driver was stubborn enough and chose to pick a fight with him instead. Lachesis said he could not hit a nurse. Lachesis did not say he could not hit other car-drivers. Papa would not imagine he could lose his cool so easily like that—it was against his upbringing, but Papa did not say anything about dying, either.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

_I am, Papa,_ he sighs, making a quick detour to the men’s bathroom near the elevator only gets to be disappointed. His clothes are tidy. There is nothing wrong with his hair. And being freshly-shaven makes him look so much better, enhancing his beauty even more. If he is to pick something worth-cheering for, his belt is not unbuckled and his pants are neatly zipped.

He splashes some water over his face and quickly wipes it off with his blood-red handkerchief. Checking the supposed address once again, he steers his reluctant paces to the law firm section of the building.

The automatic doors part themselves the moment he approaches. “Good morning. Can I help you?” a receptionist welcomes him. Her smile is professional and trained, and he finds himself unable not to smile back. He has that trained polite look under his belt too.

“Good morning, Miss. I’m Eldigan…” his voice withdraws itself as if solidly understanding how hard it is for him to push it out of his throat. The receptionist is still waiting, and he inhales again. “… Nordion.” His surname came out faintly, fainter than his previous presentation to her. The receptionist startles a little upon hearing the name, and he tries so, so hard to keep a straight face when she spares a kind sympathetic look. “And I’m here for the lawyer who is supposed to take care of…”

_I’m afraid, Papa._

“… The inheritance, Sir. I understand,” the receptionist smiles kindly, finishing his sentence.

_No, you don’t._

“Come this way, please?”

Usually receptionists will just point out what room to go, perhaps with a brief explanation of what to expect once arrived. But she ushers him personally, either being sympathetic because they just buried Papa on Saturday and suddenly the clock ticks again because this is Monday. He wants to growl or whatever it is the leonine equivalent for that. Well, lions growl. But do they, when they are sad?

The receptionist seats him on a comfortable sofa. “Tea or coffee?”

 _Death._ “Whiskey.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“I mean—coffee.”

The receptionist nods gently. “My deepest condolences, Sir.”

Papa and Mama said to never hit a lady, but there is this rising emotion, clogging his throat when the receptionist conveys that to him. Oh, gods—this is absolutely deranged, but he wishes he could take a swing. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he would rather roll back time to return everything to normal, so this well-meaning receptionist would not suffer anything.

He smiles wryly when the coffee is brought before him. There is a reason why he goes there instead of having the lawyer meeting him in his office, anyway—so he can escape. He can cite a lunch to get himself something nice, and probably drink a little bit more now that Lachesis is not here with him. And perhaps if he returns with a bunch of greasy, unhealthy chips to the office, people will leave him alone the way all this sadness will shut up. Perhaps he should try getting a cake? Sweets are filling, with that effect of akin to being bludgeoned in the solar plexus. The idea itself does not sound so bad for him, either way—Papa could not breathe, and it wasn’t due to getting bludgeoned in the solar plexus. But what kind of a heartless monster who brings cake to the office after burying his father two days ago?

The wait is killing him, but his elegant watch says it’s barely a minute since the coffee arrived.

“Lachesis?” he decided to do the only thing he would always do whenever his mind was full—being with the half-sister, the loyal companion who never disappointed since the day she entered the household. When he lost a match or spar she would be there, slapping a band-aid fussing him to chin up because her “super duper ultra cool brother” is a mighty, unyielding warrior. When Sigurd knocked him out and Quan’s lance sent him flying across the training ground, Lachesis consoled him, saying that she still thought of him as the best, regardless, and Quan’s favorite brown vest sucked while Sigurd’s side-sweep fringes reminded her of a horse’s mane. When he, with restrained chuckles, reminded Lachesis that those two were his best friends still, Lachesis reminded him that they kicked his ass.

Lachesis did not pick up in a heartbeat, but he breathes relief when she eventually does, with a yawn. The princess was just asleep then. “Huh… Eldie?”

“Right. It’s me, Sissi,” he mutters on the phone. “Still sleeping?”

“Not until you called,” she replies. “Need something?”

“No. Just checking up on you.”

There is silence from the other side until she speaks again. “… You always do that.”

“What, peaches?”

“Checking up on people. What are you, antivirus trial?”

The corner of his mouth twitches and he is really, really glad he could. “A concerned _older_ brother.”

“Then I’m a concerned sister. Did you eat anything?”

The twitch disappears in a heartbeat. “Yeah. Coffee.”

“Eldie…”

“It’s near lunch. I’ll eat something,” he quickly retorts. “Perhaps you can wake up too, it’s nearly twelve.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then eat in bed.”

“Good idea,” Lachesis yawns again. “Eldie?”

“What, Sissi?”

“Eat something. I’m serious.”

“Alright, I promise,” he sighs, ending the call. His face changes color at an instant when he realizes he is no longer alone in that sofa, but otherwise—“Good Lord. You shaved a good ten years off my life,” he sighs louder, slumping on the seat now that a familiar face kindly smiles at him. He recognizes her—her pink hair is neatly rolled like a bagel—he makes a mental note to eat, seriously this time—nicely secured at her nape with a yellow hairpin… hair tie… _whatever,_ he contemplates then. The lady makes a quick, simple gesture to smooth her purple dress before sitting down facing him, her kind sympathetic smile does not at all change as she lays a thick file folder before him.

“Hello, Eldigan,” with the same familiar voice she greets him, gently opening the folder to reveal many other papers kept inside as if not wanting to startle him. “Let’s start with your pace.”

“Why are you here, Little Sigurd?” he flashes a sad smile, not sure if this is a blessing or a curse—Sigurd’s younger sister, Ethlyn, turns out to be the one who handles his documents. It is relieving to see someone familiar there, someone who actually experienced everything with him. She was there with his best friends, arms locking around Lachesis’ waist when he had to stop lending his chest for her because they needed him as one of the pallbearers. Ethlyn’s hand tightly clasped over Lachesis’ when he delivered a speech, feeling like the ground under him was about to break because they gave him the honor of being the first to spare the last goodbye before they got to close the lid. On Sunday, Ethlyn took Lachesis for a cake spree in town while Sigurd and Quan did not leave his side the entire day.

“I asked them to let me take care of you,” Ethlyn simply chuckles. “So here I am.”

“You went through a mile for that,” he replies wryly. “I’m a pathetic one hell of an ass to handle.”

Ethlyn laughs, gently rubs his hand from over the coffee table. “You usually don’t speak like that, Eldie. Where did those calm, composed courtly lines go?”

He does not reply. And Ethlyn brushes her hand against his own understandingly.

“Quan shares your grief.”

“I forgot you work for him.”

“I’m his junior here but it’s not like he is my supervisor or anything,” Ethlyn rolls her eyes. “And lest you forget, he is in a different division. I do not date people who share the same work room with me.”

“But the same building, same field, same taste in music, same…”

Ethlyn stomps on his foot and he stops, amused.

“Thanks, Little Sigurd, I need that.”

“It is Esquire Ethlyn Chalphy, thank you very much,” she huffs, but smiles back because he did. “So, this is the summary, Eldie—Papa Nordion left behind a grand sum, not only personally for you or Lachesis, but your family business as well,” she points at one of the papers inside her folder. “Slowly we’ll get everything needed to hand over those assets to you, and reclaim everything that is in your name. However, there are several charity funds your father involved in and would need you to keep. The way you manage them all including the amount you will give is up to you.”

“Hold on,” his voice trembles a little. “I truly am the head of the family now.”

“Yeah,” Ethlyn pats his shoulder. “Congratulations?”

“Does not make me feel better somehow,” he confesses. “So the house is mine too I presume?”

“… Not just the house, Eldie,” Ethlyn lowers her head, signaling him to come closer. She whispers, and he bulges his eyes as she lays everything one by one—the family fund, Lachesis’ college money Papa had set up prior, the office’s assets, the business, the—

He gasps. And Ethlyn nods understandingly—again. “It’s like saying almost every penny in my family is at my disposal including Lachesis’ school fund and personal money until she turns eighteen,” he repeats.

“That’s the simplified version—the lite version is that you are swimming in money,” Ethlyn responds. “If that makes you feel better? We are talking more than six digits here, Eldie.”

He grunts.

“I think you should hire an independent curator or planner to start distributing everything the way Papa N would have wanted you to in the will,” Ethlyn speaks gentler this time. “That way you can hope for an objective assessment because that person is not a part of any firm or business. And even after, you still have moneybags weighing down your pants. You will be alright. Lachesis will be alright.”

“Are you suggesting everything will be alright because I can buy private jets on a whim now?”

“Eldie, you know that is not what I meant…”

“Well, I know your father is alive and well, Ethlyn!”

“Eldie…”

“Nice to meet you today, Miss Chalphy,” he raises a hand, stopping Ethlyn right away. He does not look back when Ethlyn mutters something—something which he has stopped comprehending at this point. Ethlyn is still calling for him, apologizing for causing the misunderstanding but everything around him swirls and sways—the ground breaks under him again, and he bumps against the elevator when it comes. Slumping on the floor taking the space for himself, he darts a glance at his watch.

Twelve-thirty.

He is a hungry lion ready to assault a restaurant before that hunger fails to eclipse his sorrowful anger.

********

She closes her umbrella upon arriving at the certain building. “Stupid door,” she mutters. Yielding, she finally accepted the fact that she nearly bumps face-first against the glass door or that several diners who queue behind her not-so-secretly laughed at her. She clutches her cardigan again, tighter this time. There has to be a way to let out that displeasure without having to lash at these people. She pushes the glass door again, smiling wryly because it will not budge. _I am twenty-five, darn it, not seventy-five,_ she screams in silence, cursing her fragility and nonexistent muscles for the tenth time of the day. Progress, she thinks again, suddenly feeling so keen to shatter this stupid door with some random adult fist-sized sturdy rock lying nearby. Previously it would be twenty times, and no matter how much she resents it, she is still like this, anyway, so she decides to make peace with herself.

“Let me do that for you,” a man’s voice nearly startles her from behind. She turns around, facing a young man appearing like one of those young executives in the area. He takes a good look at her, smiling a little. “Oh. I thought it was an old woman needing help. Apparently a siren.”

If her jaw could literally drop to the ground, it might be deeper than the Mariana trench now. Old woman—again? Cursed cardigan, perhaps this is the sign to stop that sudden shopping impulse just because something is on discount. Well, her car did not say anything about needing a repair. Heck, she did not even plan on being sick, but apparently we cannot have everything in the world just like that.

“S-siren? No, I’m Grahnye…” she responds awkwardly, too blank to think of anything else. Just then she quickly clams her mouth shut. What did those tips say about not engaging a stranger—a _male_ stranger? And now she just blurted out her name like that.

“Oh. I’ve never heard of a bewitching creature called Grahnye before. Are you a librarian or something?”

 _Good God,_ she thinks, thrown in between wanting to bludgeon him first and then her second—or vice-versa. And… librarian? She quickly darts a glance against the stupid glass door again. Her wavy long brown hair nicely frames her face. There is nothing stuck in her face so far, though—with the exception being her cat eyes-shaped glasses which she forgot to take off. But this is just a simple lunch trip, and she will return to her building shortly after, back to the now colder-than-ever cubicle thanks to Elliot’s weird kink called dying of hypothermia by air conditioning. Back to her loyal calculator and monitor she just wiped clean because God knows how that little bastard caught so much dirt during her absence when she was still hospitalized. So previously she is an old woman, and now a librarian… interesting. She wonders how many percent of the male population who not-so-secretly harbor a thing or two towards bespectacled ladies who dress rather conservatively. This cardigan is definitely cursed.

“No? I’m probably older than you, even.”

“Really? I thought you were a high-schooler. Then perhaps we need to get to know each other.”

“High-schooler? Ew, you are gross. No, thank you,” with her head held high she quickly steps inside, catching the man from prior fuming, calling her a stuck-up ungrateful bitch. Typical, she ponders with a tight smile. If a man strikes a conversation to her, either he is delusional, mistaking her for someone else, or a creep. And the young executive from prior just hit all the trifecta perfectly—amazing.

She walks up to the counter, smiling at the purple-haired woman who curves her lips upon seeing her. “I’m so glad to see you again! Where have you been?”

“Hi, Deirdre. I got hospitalized for nearly a week because of typhoid fever,” she smiles at the purple-haired woman who waits behind the counter. It is impossible not to like Deirdre—the woman is softspoken—even more than she is—and timid, awakening the protective older sister instinct in her. Deirdre throws her murder-worthy thick flowy purple hair she weaved into a long braid behind her back, placing a tray on the counter.

Fixing the apron bearing the restaurant’s logo behind her waist, the beautiful woman returns her attention on Grahnye. “Really? God, that sounds terrible. Are you feeling better now?”

“I’m recovering, sure,” Grahnye replies, eyeing the neon-lighted menu list behind Deirdre. “It’s just—you know, my body and everything. Other people got released in around two or three days, but it’s me, so…”

Deirdre shoots her a sympathetic look. “It’s alright. We are all a little different, Grahnye.”

“You are literally the first nice person to speak nicely to me,” she sniffles a little. “I—I’ll just have that vegetarian burger and fries, please. The doctor said I need to be gentle with my intestines for a while.”

It does not take long for Deirdre to get what she needs. The woman smiles, putting a glass of healthy ginger ale on the tray besides the plain water she has asked, patting her hand from across the counter. “On the house,” she whispers. “I love your cardigan! Get well soon, alright?”

She nearly chokes on her own sobs if Deirdre’s eyes are not still fixated on her. Mumbling a heartfelt gratitude, she drags the tray off the counter, stepping aside to see if there is a vacant seat for her to settle down and eat her lunch. Her friendship with her started with an unlikely meeting—she had taken refuge from the vicious pouring rain, sneezing and coughing like a disgruntled giraffe—

… That is perhaps not the best metaphor to come up with, but she cannot find something more fitting, regardless. It was still early in the morning; her car broke the night prior and she did not want to risk everything by driving it to her building. Unexpected to her, however, another young woman rushed to stand beside her, all coughing and sneezing as she closed her water-soaked umbrella beside her. At first it felt so unfair for thinking she had a supposed friend with similar problem. But when the other young woman accidentally captured her eyes with hers, suddenly smile and laughter broke between them, ended with the other woman shyly opening the door for her to come in.

“I work here,” she stated simply at that time. “Perhaps you want to come inside to warm yourself?”

That very day she learned that the place made kick-ass ginger ale with equally-nice comfort foods, and the other woman was called Deirdre Heim and she possessed the softest, most magnificent flowing wavy hair she ever witnessed in a person so far. She finds herself easily coming back because the place gives that calming feeling as if time stops ticking inside, allowing customers to feel homey and relaxed. It did not take long either for her and Deirdre to exchange numbers. In Deirdre, she finds similarities—the other woman is not only softspoken—she seems to appreciate simpler delights in life, compared to her fast-paced surroundings with many ambitious, robotic people around. Deirdre never makes her feel like she has to force herself on a marathon just to be able to be like everyone else. Deirdre likes the color purple and praises her hair. Most importantly, Deirdre knows what it feels to be an anxious outsider.

“I just moved here from Verdane,” she confessed one day. “And I have an ailing grandmother with me. How about you?”

At that time she sheepishly confessed back that she just managed to secure a tiny but cozy apartment in this part of southern Agustria after more than two decades living with her parents in the nice mom-and-pop small farm in the outskirts of Leonster. When she braced herself for mockery or backhanded compliments, Deirdre beamed at her, telling her how lucky she ought to be because she liked animals, and being somewhere lush like the grassy, hilly Leonster sounded awesome. It did not take long for her to invite Deirdre to eat dinner with her, and they sprawled on her couch watching a romantic comedy while taking turn to agree with each other that sitting on a rooftop to stargaze and running barefoot freely over the grass should be the new definition of happiness, dictionary-wise.

Waving at Deirdre to nod at her with a smile, she cranes her neck left and right. The pleasant café seems to be pretty tightly-packed and everyone seems to be having a companion or two to spend lunch with. With a quick glance, the corner of her eyes catches the man from prior finishes his order from the other counter and now begins to walk to her direction carrying his own tray.

She bites her lips. No way she is going to be involved with him for the second time of the day. If anything, she needs to finish her lunch quickly to return to her building soon, and some mindless creep is not in the menu or planned activity she penciled in her agenda for the day.

He looks at her. She averts her eyes, quickly racing the aisle to secure a seat before he catches up. Her gaze lands on the back seat, occupied by a single person who is looking down on the food.

Normally, she does not fancy a seat like that. It’s isolated, too far from the crowd even if she is not so keen on mingling with the crowd. But all the seats are occupied, and the young executive from prior should have been able to tell if she forces herself to join one of those occupied tables anyway. If she joins the lone diner at the back there, it would appear like meeting a friend.

But what if that person is also unsavory?

She bites her lips again, praying before betting on all her chances. The person back there seems to be way too preoccupied by the food to even be concerned by anything else. A safe choice. At least if that lone diner turns out to be an unsavory individual as well, she can hope to leave right after the young executive from prior is already out of sight.

Holding her breath, she navigates her way to the said backseat. The lone diner hardly even notices or simply uncaring, which makes everything smoother for her, because this lone diner is busy with a paper and a phone. _Act normal and cool, G,_ she urges herself. If she just takes everything casually, the lone diner will understand that she simply needs a table to eat. While it might be true, the lone diner will not suspect that a table to eat means she needs a refuge from the unsavory stranger.

“Um…” she dumps her tray on the lone diner’s table, silently cursing her frantic steps because she nearly spilled her free ginger ale all over his paper. And just her luck, lone diner is not as absent as she hoped he would be—he lifts his head off the table, looking at her, surprised.

Lone diner turns out to be… handsome. He has chopped lustrous blond hair which ends touch his shoulders. He has narrow-sharp eyes of… she aren’t sure for now—gold color; probably hazel color with a kind of reddish copper tone underneath. Not only blessed with beautiful golden mane, the lone diner possesses prominent cheekbones with a firm mouth line and strong but tempered jaw lines, giving the impression of absolute regal beauty, or if she is to summarize everything she saw—handsome.

Right, this lone diner is handsome to the bones and hair strands. And she feels ridiculous for easily getting tongue-tied because his eyes sharply scanned her presence in a heartbeat. Is he a lion? If he is, then… good, perhaps she is a dove here. Pursued and then trapped. Doves can fly, however. And she cannot even run.

“Do I know you?”

His voice is rather deep, low but with distinctive richness within. And somehow that makes him sound rather… gentle. Perhaps he is indeed a lion and she is a dove because being stared and addressed like that somehow vanquishes every coherent response she can think of.

“N-no, I believe you don’t,” she apologetically shakes her head at him before quickly tilting her head to glance at the other side. The young executive from prior frowns and does not seem to be that pleased that she settled somewhere else—with someone else. “I’m sorry, but if you don’t mind…”

“Him?”

His response is calm and she can only give a small nod.

“Then take your time, Miss.”

 _That easy?_ She looks at him again, only to find the latter flashing a small reassuring smile at her. “Oh, goodness. Thank you, truly, thank you,” mumbling, she fumbles with her food, nearly knocking down the ginger ale—again. “I hope I did not ruin your paper.”

“No, but it seems to me you nearly ruined your cardigan,” the corner of his mouth twitches as he gently picks up the ginger ale which stands tilted against her elbow. “There. Better?”

“Thank you,” she mumbles again, bringing her vegetarian burger closer to her face. The steam clouds her glasses and she wishes she could die right there because… somehow lone diner makes everything awkward. She considers herself a composed person. The reason she trips and bumps is more due to physical limitation rather than being a klutz. And she will swear she does not do that to appear cute, either. “Oh, God,” she balls her fist, taking off her glasses, snatching her glasses box real quick out of her purse to retrieve the small rag to wipe off the fog.

Just then she realizes bone-crushing level handsome lone diner is looking at her again. Red-faced embarrassed she picks up the bread knife and fork which come with her burger. _Graceful, graceful,_ she keeps telling herself that, because eating humane like a human nearly failed her. Setting her glasses on the table to let the fog die down in a bit, she digs into the food…

“… Miss?”

“Yes?! Oh, my, did I wet you?” she gasps, cupping her mouth at an instant upon hearing diners who seated themselves nearby sounding like they are about to choke back the laughter they nearly let out. Her expression turns sour upon noticing there is also a glimmer of twinkle in Mr. Brazenly Handsome’s leonine eyes in front of her. “You laughed, huh. I thought I did knock my drink and kill your paper there! Then get wet and damp for all I care—today is already hell for me, anyway.”

Why is she venting to a stranger? Just because this lone diner is handsome?

“No, but you are cutting my food,” the lone diner flatly points at his own plate, causing her to look down.

Her expression is a combination of wishing a quick, painless death and begging to be excruciatingly tortured, medieval-style, because—yes, yes, she indeed cut his food instead. _Cursed bad eyesight,_ out of reflex her head slumps over the table in a really unintended comical manner. “I’m—oh, God, I bet you are already bored to death hearing me apologizing. But that truly was unintended! I’m so sorry!”

The lone diner glances at her glasses. “The fog subsides.”

“Oh, thank you…” she quickly snatches the glasses back and wears them in a flash. Only then she realizes what he just said—she truly accidentally maimed his scrambled egg and one of his spicy chicken wings, mistaking them as her own food. “… Oh, dear Lord. I assure you, Sir, I did not want this. I did not…”

This time lone diner cups half of his face with his hand. _Oh, good,_ she sullenly notes, _I behave like a clown that even a handsome stranger laughs now. Sigh._

“Pardon the way that I stare,” he courteously nods at her. “But it seems to me that you need a little bit help.”

“I—got my glasses back. Um—I’ll replace your food, I promise! This one or something else?”

“It’s alright. May I?” lone diner makes a motion of dragging her plate to his direction. When she nods out of curiosity, he gently takes the fork and knife from her clutches and cuts the food. “There.”

“I thank you,” she replies sheepishly. “My, you must think I’m so hapless…”

“Honestly, I was thinking if I intimidated you,” he responds. “And I’d like to apologize if that is the case because I never intended to.”

“Oh?” she curves her lips. Really? Perhaps today is not so bad after all.

“… Although admittedly, I’ve never found a person who thanked me for a second and desperately invoked God’s name for another,” the corner of his mouth twitches again. “Pardon me, Miss.”

“Are you…” she really, really takes a good look at this lone diner now. He has a quirky way of speaking—like courteous and regally old-fashioned at the same time; sans the unnerving odd vibe coming from some people who… seriously address the girls they try to get close with by ‘milady’.

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you do not want a replacement?” she looks down on his plate.

“No,” his reply is firm. “… I’m not even sure if I can finish them.”

She glances down again. Besides the scrambled egg she accidentally maimed, the handsome lone diner has spicy chicken wings—a rather unlikely combination for a lunch. Somehow it is almost like he did not even see what he ordered, merely pointing at the menu behind the counter. “I must admit that is rather… eh, an unlikely pair,” she comments. “But I have nothing against you, really! To each their own.”

“I didn’t have breakfast. Scrambled egg is identical with breakfast so I thought…” his words trail and she immediately catches that the light in his eyes dies a little when he talked. “… And I guess my stomach starts acting up because I only had a drink since last night.”

 _Liar,_ he chastises himself immediately. _You did not have ‘a drink’. You nearly emptied a whiskey bottle._

“And what did you have in the morning?” she looks at him sympathetically now. The stranger appears so alert and the moment after he seems to be so out of this world, drifting away. Despite being polite enough not to make any comment about her and her quip, she cannot help but thinking if he is in a pretty bad shape himself considering how… lively his expression was when he got to smile a little.

 _Stop projecting, Grahnye,_ she quickly reminds herself in silence then. Maybe good-looking people have their own problems and already troubled for… being good-looking. She really wants to sigh loudly now—her insides might get a bit ruined due to the typhoid fever, but her brain is supposed to be untouched. Projecting or not, this lone diner appears so sad and fleeting in a heartbeat; had they been friends, she would straight up ask if he felt depressed.

“… Coffee,” the lone diner replies, in a surprised manner like he isn’t even supposed to answer that.

Well, she isn’t supposed to ask, either, but here they are anyway.

“That’s not good,” she blurts out of reflex. “Um, I’m sorry for being so abrupt, but…” sliding her ginger ale to him, her smile finds its way. “Take mine! It will calm your stomach a bit so you can eat!”

“I’m leaving in a minute or so, anyway.”

“So am I. My building is nearby, though. Take it? Really, please let me make up my clumsiness.”

“I truly don’t mind.”

“Neither do I. Please? That sounds like self-destruction…” realizing she just mentioned it so suddenly, she cups her mouth again, gracefully facing him. “I don’t mean to pry, but considering today did not start well with me either, I’d like to help someone to feel better. You helped me, anyway.”

“Hmm. You had a bad start and you wanted to help people from feeling bad?” he looks at her.

“Basically?” she looks back.

“… What an unlikely mission,” he mumbles.

“Let me wipe the sauce for you. Let’s tame down the spiciness a bit,” she takes plies of tissue from the box nearby, cleaning his chicken wings one by one. Setting her fries onto her burger plate, he uses the spare plate to set the neutralized wings before presenting them to him. “Here you go.”

“And your food?”

“They are still here.”

“Your hands are dirty with sauce.”

“Oh,” she looks down. “You are right. But I can just wash.”

“… You did not think before doing that?” he looks at her, again, with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Admittedly no,” she answers sheepishly. “I want to get back soon but I want you to eat too.”

“… I’ll do so with gratitude,” the lone diner looks down. “And you are right—screw that egg.”

She smiles, giggling a little bit. “Right. Bon appetit.”

“If you can wait for me a little bit,” the lone diner takes himself off the seat, walking to another section near the counter, approaching one of the restaurant workers. She watches him from a distance, noticing how tall he is when he is leaning close by the smaller door at the back side of the café. He casually keeps his hands in his pocket; his pants are crisp and of light brown color, contrasting his classic oxfords. His red vest gives a subtle fashionable touch on him, and she thinks she can make a good view of his back when he fixes his sleeves, buttoning them back.

This lone diner is indeed handsome—with a tall posture and well-built figure to match the face.

She clears her throat, cleaning her fingers again with the tissues. Not sure why, but a piece of bread clogs in her throat and she needs the water to flush it down. She waits for him to come back, and oddly enough, the ticking clock does not stress her as it typically would. Actually, if anything she does not really mind being detained a moment longer in the café somehow if she can be sure that the lone diner is indeed eating better after this.

“Hello again, cute librarian.”

She gasps. The lone diner is nowhere to be found—instead it was the young executive from prior, seating himself where the handsome stranger previously settled in. “I’m not…”

“Then what are you? A vixen?”

“Excuse me?”

“You owe me one, though,” he smiles. “I mean…”

“I do not,” she clutches her purse.

“Some nice guy opened the door for you and you couldn’t even be bothered to thank me?”

“Thank you. There, you have it,” she rolls her eyes at him.

“Wow, rude. Don’t roll your eyes like that,” he huffs.

She rolls her eyes again, tilting her head to see if the lone diner is back. Regardless of what is what, he told her to wait, and she sure wants to know what it is that he needs from her next.

“Why, looking for your knight?” the annoying stranger grins at her. “Perhaps he chose to settle on something better, don’t you think? You know people like that—the handsome ones tend to be assholes. Why wait on him? I can drive you back to your campus. I’m not irresponsible like that asshole.”

“So,” she keeps her tone flat, “… that means you are ugly?”

“What?!”

“I mean, based on that theory,” she shrugs. “I’m not a college student either, you know, so…”

“So you better remove yourself because that seat is mine.”

She searches around, finding the source of the voice stands stiffly behind the seat. The lone diner is back, and unlike prior, he looks rather different—like containing anger from within. The offending stranger does not stand a chance because the lone diner conveniently seizes the other man by his collar, dragging him to the get him out from the back door while other people watch—including Deirdre who is done cleaning a new pile of tray to be brought to the counter. Deirdre gives her a wary look, and she shoots her a similar look as both women witness the lone stranger casually kicks the uninvited guest out.

She clutches on her purse again. The other man is now fuming, shouting profanities at the lone diner, who merely smirks a little and listens. “That is not the way to call a lady. Want to take it outside?”

“We are outside already!”

“Right. Convenient, isn’t it?” the tall lone diner simply moves closer.

She rushes to the door, grabbing the lone diner before a fight breaks out. The lone diner looks back, meeting her condemning look, but not protesting when she takes him back to the seat. “That was dangerous!”

The lone diner merely hands her a bottle of hand sanitizer. “I’m sorry it took me longer, Miss.”

“You—oh, God,” she slaps her forehead, but merely taking what he handed regardless. “I mean…”

“It’s alright,” the lone diner speaks again. “I thought you needed help and I happen to be in the mood.”

“Of helping?”

“… Of fighting,” he murmurs, instantly appearing crestfallen now that she backs away a little bit.

He looks like he is about to say something, but cancelling his intention at the last minute, which she assumes because he is distracted by the incoming notification he just received on the phone. She watches him frowning at the screen, contemplating it for a moment—and another, when the device vibrates more. The lone diner takes a deep breath before returning the phone into his pocket.

Now that they are standing that close, she thinks she can make a quick glimpse of the texts he received and left hanging on the home screen—

_(4) Unread messages_

Sigurd 01:10 PM  
_… You need help, my friend._

Lachesis 01:00 PM  
_Did you eat?_

Alva 12:30 PM _  
Sir, are you still at the law firm?_

Eve 12:15 PM _  
I don’t think we can procure a new computer that fast but I’m trying, Sir._

“I—thank you for the hand sanitizer,” she looks at Deirdre, who shakes her head as if telling her that no, she did not detect anything suspicious from this lone diner so far. Thrown in between she looks at him again, but the lone diner is closely watching the forceful stranger he nearly took out in a fight prior until the latter drives back to wherever he came, as if making sure there will not be any looming disturbance catching her from behind.

The lone diner sighs, treating her to an apologetic but sad smile as he withdraws further from her like making sure he truly is not there to scare anyone, let alone her. He opens the door for her, telling her to be careful still but he will watch her out regardless, altering between profusely thanking her and apologizing for nearly initiating a fight there.

“I’m not faulting you,” she responds as his hand is still conveniently perched on the handle. “I know you meant well. But perhaps … perhaps you need help? You looked so sad.”

“You helped me eating,” he mutters back like he is in disbelief himself. “I owe you.”

“Oh,” she fumbles with her words—again. Nodding at him, she races the concrete pavement once again.

“I truly didn’t mean to scare you, Miss. My apologies.”

“He did that first, though,” trying to lighten the atmosphere, she chuckles softly. “Coffee and whiskey are not the best combination, you see. Take this advice from me, who recently got hospitalized out of typhoid fever. And to be perfectly honest, that one really caught me off guard because—well, it’s probably been more than a while since a man approached me. My, I thought I was an adult,” he frowns and she instantly wishes she could take those words back. “I mean—well, I _am_ an adult, but like…”

“There is no shame in feeling unsafe,” his eyes light up a little bit. “And of course.”

“Oh,” she struggles with her words—again. “This cardigan is indeed cursed. Do I look like a mess?”

“No, it’s pretty,” Deirdre mutters out of reflex from the corner.

The lone diner wears the same soft faint smile on his lips again. “I’m not pointing at a lady,” he speaks in a gentler manner this time. “But if you allow me to be honest, simply because neighboring school kids wear uniform and the nearest university is still too far for the students to eat here.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that,” she blurts out of reflex. “Thank you. You are so polite.”

“My pleasure. I’m not playing guess in regards to a woman’s age either,” he nods simply. “I have to get back at work now, I assume you are the same?”

“I suppose…” she takes out her phone, gasping. “Nearly one-thirty? God, they will chew me out. Um…”

“After you,” he holds the door still. “And I park across the street because my office is at the opposite direction. Will this ease your mind?”

“So polite,” Deirdre mumbles again from the corner, and she nods out of reflex—again, earning that lips-twitching from the lone diner.

“Then please take care of yourself too,” she slips her fries into his hand. He looks down because the gesture surprised him, and she follows-up with a chuckle. “You have to eat real food this time.”

“… Perhaps I do need help.”

She watches him fulfilling his own words by crossing the street to get to his car. He nods again at her; his hair illuminates under the bright sunlight and there is that small smile reigning on his lips as he waves for the last time before opening his driver’s seat. Waving back, she notes how this lone diner truly drives to the opposite direction of the café as he said he would. It is not just his courteousness and gallantry which kind of intrigue her—or the sudden sad expression even when he hauled the unwanted intruder out of the café. It is when he smiled, though—radiant and bright; befitting him more than the repressed sad expression he tried to hide under that taciturnity.

But my God, this lone diner is indeed handsome to the bones.


	3. Hold On

She walks slower than usual. Somehow her eyes are still fixated on the lone diner even after he gets into the car. Perhaps because the lone diner has a silver-colored Ford Expedition SUV appearing unyielding and strong parked on the other side of the street. Perhaps because the car reminds her of the way his back appeared to her the moment he hauled that unwanted stranger out. Or perhaps because…

_He is nice,_ she thinks again, instantly feeling so shy for even harboring such thought; like deep down she quickly chastises herself that first and foremost, she should not. She shakes her head again, feeling ridiculous for harboring a strong impression of a stranger who just shared a diner table with her. Well, perhaps he is just nice like that. And she could have sworn she thought chivalry was dead until he went out of his way to procure the hand sanitizer for her. And not only that, he even held the door for her too.

She recalls the pleasant twitch at the corner of his mouth when he appeared amused. And how his reaction seemed to be genuine without that typical sneering undertone she is way too familiar with—he treated her… _normally._ And it’s been a long while since the last time she felt like a normal person; a normal kid just like her peers. He treated her with the sense of normalcy that is missing in her life…

But the lone diner also appeared to be so sorrowful—it’s almost like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders! How different his expression was when he got to smile a little. If that SUV is the kind of car he drives, then… safe to say he is well-off, perhaps. She has never truly paid attention to the offices at the direction he returned to, but perhaps he is one of those shiny executives working in a wet place—her term for a place drowned in money.

“God,” suddenly she mellows a bit. “I’m so pathetic. Just because a nice guy treats me like a normal person, I’m overwhelmed,” clutching her purse even tighter as if trying to seek for a sense of safety from something she does not even know, she races the concrete pavement faster. At least that café feels like a safe place for her—first Deirdre’s kindness, then the handsome stranger’s. Perhaps it is true that one should pay attention to helpers when the world feels too bleak to breathe in.

_... But is it pathetic?_ Her mind races again. It’s been too long since life feels kind to her. Can’t she be impressed? People often tell others these things about how low the bar is, but what if life is just that hard all along that one loses a sense of what is good exactly because nothing good ever happened so far?

“Hey, walk faster, slowpoke!”

She gasps upon hearing someone shouting behind her. A person snickers at her as he runs on the pavement, clicking his tongue multiple times looking so incredibly annoyed, exchanging glances at his watch and the street repeatedly.

“Stupid queue, now I’m late,” he mutters under his breath, catching her glimpse taking refuge under a canopy of an outdoorsy café’s patio. He shoots a look at her from behind his shoulder, like he is genuinely surprised that she is out of breath and appearing so anxious like that.

_Inhale, exhale,_ she keeps telling herself, remembering everything she learned at the therapy. Why must she be this sensitive? Why is her body made of glass bones and paper skin? Why must she cower easily? Why does it actually take a lot just to… function normally? Why is the world so unkind? Why do people have to shout and speak in loud voice? Why is…

“What a princess.”

_If only,_ she smiles wryly, recalling her new batch of medicines from the hospital for the recovery, piling the list of vitamins she already takes regularly. Somehow her mind travels to the lone diner again—it will be nice to redo the café scene again, minus the young executive, of course—because there she felt so safe. Because he smiled while most people around her sneered and thought she was merely seeking for attention, with all the condition she tried explaining during the days she was unavailable to do much. And sadly the very same people who think she is lazy would love to bring her condition into conversation when she stated that she would put more effort and work harder—exactly because she keeps feeling like lacking no matter how much time she dedicated and workload she finished compared to the others.

Finally regaining her composure, she returns to the pavement. _Perhaps that lone diner is not even real,_ she thinks sadly again. It’s too good to be true. Most of her life she already felt like that oddball who never fitted anywhere. Unimpressive, mediocre—just… bland while other kids ran free and lived life.

She mentally slaps her forehead for thinking of the lone diner again. Why is she so fixated on a stranger like that? But even if she does not want to, she is. Admiring his good looks is one thing, but on the other hand the ashen sorrowful look, the weird food combination he was getting and did not pay attention to, how little he ate kind of raised a red flag. She has been there—depressed and feeling so mellow because of… many things. And the lone diner appeared so fatalistic; like he was almost glad that the unwanted stranger actually crossed paths with him just so he could have something to fight…

… So he could feel?

Hmmm. Perhaps being that rich is not as easy as it seems. But honestly, at this point she would rather endure a few inconveniences rather than having to be reminded of her own bills and the wretched soap box she calls a car. How old is it even—not to mention it was not in a new condition when she got it!

She decides to just stop thinking. The faster she can return, the more she can finish in a day. Besides, she was hospitalized for nearly a week. Then…

… Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five, just let out a deep breath by the time she returned to her building. It’s pretty quiet now, and needless to say she is late. Another wry smile brews on her lips as she walks up to the elevator, now unsure if she would rather hear Elliot being a jerk to her or a silent compound like this. At least when people swayed back and forth she knows she is not alone and that she will not… stand out.

Nobody dislikes feeling exceptional—the problem is, sadly feeling exceptional does not always mean exceptionally good. Feeling like an odd ball for most of her life, she can definitely use some… humanity.

She regrets not sneaking her burger knife from the café into her purse by the time she arrives at her building. Elliot’s smirk welcomes her right when she is about to drape her cardigan over the chair, and while she contemplates stabbing him with a mechanical pencil for the extra act he puts up, he quickly opens his mouth to say something like he sure understands she is so wishing she can kick him right now.

“Hello, Princess! The boss wants to see you.”

“Imka needs me?” she frowns. “What happened?”

“How do I know? I mean, I’m not late,” Elliot shrugs, almost like he enjoys seeing her writhing in agony. “And no, not Imka. The branch though—Chagall.”

“If the number-two wants me, it still will be similar, Elliot,” she rolls her eyes. “And please, I’m not late because I loved to, alright? Something happened.”

“Like what, osteoporosis?”

“Elliot,” she barks a warning tone. “And no. That still sounds better than dealing with a creep.”

He snorts the moment she said the word. “A man creeping on you?” he waves his hand. “You know, Grahnye, if I were you, I’d probably say a thank you. Miracles don’t happen often, you know?”

“… That is not nice,” she grits her teeth. “Are you truly this low?”

“Tut tut, boss calls, Grahnye,” Elliot waves his hand again, turning his back from her to head to his own cubicle. “I bet that was not nice. Perhaps a country girl like you should just stay in Leonster.”

She balls her fists. Inhale, exhale—what did the therapy say again? Oh, right. Why must she heed the therapist again—at this rate, perhaps all she needs is a boxing champion’s wise words. So she is supposed to unpack her anxiety and repressed anger but other people are not responsible to not be a jerk? Perhaps a headbutt works better than a therapy for assholes.

Without saying anything else she braves herself to steer her legs to Chagall’s office room. As ambitious as he can be, he is not that daft, anyway. Imka is impartially benevolent and fatherly, so she hopes that trait at least leaves a footprint on his son.

Knocking weakly, she exhales, bracing herself for what Chagall might ask of her. Hey, perhaps it is not that bad. Despite her occasional illness here and there, her performance has always been steady and she never caused any damage so far. ‘Stellar' is subjective, but she is fairly confident in the cold hard evidence that is the reports and papers she finished. Her nerves calm down now that confidence slowly runs back in her veins, and she grabs the handle bar proudly when the voice inside tells her to come in.

“Elliot said you needed me,” she starts, composing a smile, sitting gracefully on the seat before her.

“Hmmm. You seem to be frank,” Chagall peeks at her from the paper he is holding. “I don’t think we even ever spoke before.”

“No,” she quickly responds, “—Sir.”

“Well,” he shrugs. “Then I regret it must come to be like this—you are fired.”

“I’ll be delighted for a promotion… hold on—what…?”

“Yeah. Fired,” Chagall sets his paper conveniently. “That’s all, though.”

“But—why?” she hates that she squeaks. Really? She already pictured there is at least an oasis in this hellish workplace with cold and unwelcoming peers like this. After her unpleasant lunch experience she hopes that there is at least a bit of… consolation. Something which makes her feel like she matters. And definitely she can use the bonus to finally give her car the beauty transformation it deserves…

“I don’t think you’d want to know,” Chagall responds, looking down on his paper again. “Grahnye.”

_You are firing me and you just learned about my name today?!_ —She blinked again. There has to be an explanation behind this… right? “Of course,” she keeps her voice composed and professional. “Because if my performance is lacking, I’m willing to improve—proven by the results of my work so far.”

“Well,” Chagall glances down again. “Admittedly there is no flaw in your work, eh—Grahnye.”

_Maybe you should not fire me if my name tastes like fire in your throat,_ she contemplates, realizing Chagall has taken a step back now that she looks at him with such intense gaze that it is almost like she is eating him alive. “And that will be…”

Chagall seems to be half-annoyed and half-hesitant being held to answer her like that. At this rate, she does not care. If she is going to be fired, at least she will stand her ground and not let hearsay ruin her track record. It’s a family business. She hates having to go layer over layer just to get her complaint through. Imka is kind and just, but Chagall is still his son. And she is not planning to go without getting an answer, folding her arms sitting in front of him without any threatening manner but her entire body language signals that she is going to sit there until she gets an explanation.

“Frankly, it seems some people are kind of displeased with you,” he says then. “I’m not going to sit there like a kindergarten teacher having to break off a fight but I can’t have that disrupt my workforce.”

“I… pardon?” that truly is unexpected. She is going to be fired because—because of—grudge? Because some people are so-called displeased with her but unable to even tell her like functioning adults they are? “I’m sorry, but what?”

“You tend to leave early,” Chagall looks at her.

“Early lunch? Twelve and twelve thirty is early—especially because I finished quicker than them?!” she wants to bang her head against the desk now. “I’m supposed to be mindful of other people’s paces—oh, sorry—incapability!—while they are not even inclined to be a little bit kinder to me?”

“You took leave often,” Chagall keeps his head low just so he does not need to face him.

“I was sick,” she reiterates, puffing. “I can always show you the medical record.”

“And you let your personal sentiment rule you at work.”

“You mean Elliot Heirhein harassing me,” she sighs. “Are you truly doing this now?”

“You got sick, often,” Chagall repeats as if finding an evidence to pressure her with.

“And I took my work to my beds,” she grits her teeth again. “Please check with Boss Imka—I’ve never failed meeting a target and I always, always correspond accordingly. Actually, I went down with typhoid fever exactly because the job exhausted me. But see, I finished everything I was tasked for—“

“Then perhaps you should work somewhere else, doing something else, don’t you agree, Grahnye?” Chagall cuts her in, looking truly bored now. “Come on. Pack your things.”

“I hope Elliot does not destroy this place,” she purses her lips tightly, taking herself off from the chair. “Good afternoon, Sir.”

She does not look back after that. Elliot is practically unseen for the rest of the afternoon, which she suspects on purpose just so she cannot hunt for his head. Elliot is probably a jerk, but he is not much of a brave one, anyway—if he is, he can at least face her and tell what the _actual_ problem is instead of having to frame her like the torn between the sheets like this. _A family business,_ she ponders, in which most people have been there for years and knowing each other. But will this be the end?

She really has no idea how she manages to hold back her tears and bites her lips as she throws her stuff into a box. She is hoping to see the HRD to claim her health insurance. Now that she is fired so abruptly, she doubts she will at least get the amount she was supposed to be getting as an employee. Since Chagall recited so-called personal sentiment to single her out, how about she takes her personal sentiment _now_ by demanding her deserved compensation through a third party help? Yes, she does not want to see these people again. Yes, she wants to burn them alive in an oven. Yes—

… No. Who is this third party that she hopes to help her? And she thinks she has colleagues. She thinks she had friends. Apparently… not?

With a pack of tissue in hand she strolls to meet the HRD at her office, only to be informed that the person she is supposed to meet is out meeting Imka. Pushing a smile, she tells the intern who received her that she might just call later—

She slams her leg against the glass door, pouring her anger and sadness at the same time. Her face reddens when she feels a soft but sudden pull across her pencil skirt. Looking down she catches that the slit is torn a little bit.

_Just great,_ she tightens her lips, not sure if she won’t be able to stop crying right there if she stays longer. And this glass door is still not budging like the eternal nemesis that it is.

_I feel stupid. I must look stupid as well,_ she contemplates the box burdening her arms and her torn skirt.

“Need help, Grahnye?”

She looks up. Elliot opens the door for her, smiling—no, _smirking,_ like he knows what happened. Well, perhaps he does. After all, how dare they making it sound like _she_ was the one with personal problem there. It does not escape her either that he called her name—her real name, without any one-sided nickname only he likes. _Clear now,_ she musters a tight smile. The day she is out of this building is the day Elliot Heirhein deigns himself to call her by her name. “That’s so kind of you, Elliot,” she smiles sweetly, purposefully dropping her box on Elliot’s shiny shoes. She merely stands there, waiting for Elliot to help picking up her box she has graciously dropped on his feet without a faltering smile while he grimaces and winces.

“I’m so glad you are fired,” Elliot mutters under his breath, limping as he begrudgingly picks up her box. She shrugs, sparing him an innocent look as she takes back the box from him.

She does not look back when she hastily races the corridor to get to the elevator. Her purse dangles on her shoulder, and despite the box burdening her arms once again, she has no plan to stop. _Inhale, exhale,_ she keeps telling herself like it is a mantra, trying so hard not to frantically press on the elevator button. The moment the elevator is open she lunges inside, quickly slamming its door shut before anyone else can get inside.

Normally she will not. And she is not sure Elliot will race there to get her.

Perhaps he won’t. But she just wants to get out of there—soon, sooner than soon…

The elevator stops at the lobby, giving her the familiar _ding!_ sound she has known for these past three years. Three years—three years and for nothing, for a boss like that, for coworkers like that—

Her head spins. She cannot wait to get in her car, really—

Her back bumps against the security guard who is chatting with the idle receptionist. Alerted, he turns around, smiling, recognizing her familiar face. “Can I help you with that, Ma’am?”

“Certainly,” she murmurs, handing her box to the security guard, following him as they head to the basement to reach for her car.

“Working hard again as always?” the well-meaning security guard asks, patiently waiting on her to unlock her car. “I saw you leaving late a couple of times…”

“I—“ she swallows, not sure how to respond to that. She just got fired. Fired, fired, fired—and how come he is nice like this? How come people seem to be nicer after she got fired? Why didn’t they when she was still there? “Thank you, that is very kind of you,” she decides to just let it slip, concentrating on the guard loading the box into her passenger seat instead.

“Oh, it’s alright,” he waves at her after closing the door. She feels like hiding her face under her cardigan when he frowns, noticing the unkind song her door made when closing in. The guard glances at the door once again, but she quickly gets to the passenger seat, inserting her key and making a motion of rolling her window. The guard then understands that she is politely conveying that she is about to leave, so he simply nods with a smile. “Take care!”

She waits until the guard leaves the basement, acting like searching something in her dashboard. Igniting the key, her eyebrows frown upon hearing the noise her car makes, and she prays that the guard is not coming back to check on her. That well-meaning gesture is nice but after what happened she feels like having exhausted all her endurance quota in a day, not wanting people to give her a look and now asking a thing or two about her worn-out car as well.

_Just like my body, isn’t it?_ She slams her foot on the gas panel once again, lightly hammering her fist against her seat when her car is making yet another ungodly loud noise.

When the old battered machine finally takes off, she breathes relief, carefully navigating the soap box out of the building. After a while she is already back in the open at the street, thankful for the red light because it forces people to slow down and mind their driving. Her expression is pretty hollow as she stares into the distance, contemplating the red light some meters away before her.

Just then everything begins to dawn on her.

_I got fired,_ she breathes out, keeping her hands steady on the steering wheel.

As the red light changes into green, an impatient driver honks loudly when her car takes a while to move.

_This is unfair,_ she inhales deeply again as her foot pushes on the panel.

A sympathetic driver rolls down her window, catching her attention with her hand; pointing at her tire.

She blinks and rolls down the window as well. “Flat tire?”

“I think! You may want to have it repaired!” the driver nods before pulling her window back up.

“Hey, slowpoke, are you moving or nah?!” the same driver who just honked loudly at her shouted again.

She rolled down her window again. Why are people so keen on making her explode? Is her patience only good to be abused and taken advantage of? Can’t people be kinder to each other? Can this world slow down? What’s wrong with these people again? They want a piece, perhaps she should.

She is thinking of something _mean_ to cuss back at the driver with when another car rolling at the lane next to hers already rolls down the window. She expects another disgruntled driver or their passenger to join forces to chew her out, but…

“Why don’t _you_ move, wretched asswipe?!”

She gasps. That ferocious yelling—no, _roaring_ just now—

She glances out of reflex. Hold on—that car just now seems familiar—

But another figure at the front passenger seat quickly pulls the window up again. Expression of distaste is spelt clearly across her face. She looks at the passenger—a young woman with shoulder-length beautiful blond hair dressed in white shirt and plaid skirt shakes her head. She wears checkered tie, and there is a certain logo embroidered on her shirt’s front pocket. She can faintly hear her speaking before the window is truly closed tight. Since her car is next to hers in parallel manner, it is easier for her to steal further view of the other girl, whom by then she imagines chastising the driver who just unleashed a leonine roar against the impatient driver.

_Leonine roar,_ she thinks again. The well-built powerful SUV recovers quickly and sails the road again, leaving her car in dust. She cannot believe it—it truly is the lone diner! And the blond girl looks like one of those elite private school students like he mentioned to her at the café. A relative, then? The girl in uniform’s facial features do remind her of his, so perhaps…

_What an unlikely occurrence,_ she muses, thinking how courteous and gallant the lone diner was when they met. When their cars are close to each other again, she beams in awe when the front passenger seat rolls down again, revealing the same blond school girl from prior throwing a bottled drink into a nearby trash can bulls-eye.

“Why did you do that?!”

“He deserved it!”

“… Were you drinking again?”

“Again? Sissi, I’m not a drunkard.”

“I’m worried about you!”

“I’m alright.”

“Are you? You keep saying that and yet…” the blond school girl clicks her tongue, realizing her window is half-down. Grahnye pauses at her seat, feeling the girl shooting icy glare at her before roughly closing her window in full—as if warning her not to eavesdrop on them.

“Whatever,” she sighs, adding more speed as the silver SUV next to her gallops. Yes, she overheard them. And then what? Will that make her bosses magically withdraw their decision to fire her? Will that make Elliot stop being a jerk? Will that give her car the vamp it needs?

_I just got fired,_ the realization dawns on her again.

She pulls to the side, feeling water starts filling her eyes. Her chest feels tight and her breaths are short—again—that she begrudgingly rolls her window for some fresh air as she steadies herself with a pack of tissue in her tight clutch.

The silver SUV from prior stops at a few building ahead of her, revealing the blond school girl from prior coming out of the front passenger seat. Somehow her eyes follow—a music theater or some sort. Her lips curve wryly again—no wonder a student of an elite private school takes musical instrument lessons or even performs there. She quickly wipes her eyes when the blond girl sharply turns her head at her, perhaps suspecting her to watch on her.

Just then the silver SUV makes another turn to ride the road back. The driver pulls down the window, giving hand signal to the cars behind while he makes a pivot to return to the lane.

Their eyes meet.

It is him. The handsome lone diner from prior!

He appears to be surprised but there is no time to make an interaction because cars behind begin to honk at his SUV, prompting him to quickly navigate his car back into the lane. By the time the SUV’s powerful engine kicks a start, it does not take long for him to muster a smooth departure while she throws away the tissue plies she used to the nearby bin.

They missed.

She quickly pulls her window back up, returning her concentration onto the street. Darn it, she could not even throw like that school girl could. And she thought she succeeded evading people’s looks and stares—the handsome lone diner caught her while she was crying.

She did not know he truly is a lion like that. And now she wonders if he added another description of her as well by the time his car faded away—the awkward, matronly librarian he took into his seat because some creepy executive would not leave her alone; the one who previously helped him eat with such confident manner is having a breakdown at the street—

_…_ _The financial advisor who just got unceremoniously fired,_ she voluntarily finishes her thoughts.

Well, well, isn’t she back to feel like crying again, somehow.

********

He grunts.

His jaw feels hurt after receiving one left hook and one powerful head-spinning uppercut, and sweat drops begin clouding his vision as his blond strands start to feel rather damp on his forehead. Before him, a blue-haired man makes a quick sweep of his fringes, fixing his bandanna which keeps them away from his eyes. He waits patiently until the blue-haired man gets into a readying stance, and we he does, he pivots his leg, snapping a powerful kick at him.

The blue-haired man frowns, evading it. “You are past your limit.”

“No way,” he replies, wiping his forehead consecutively in a row now.

“Eldie,” the blue-haired man repeats in a firmer tone. “Did you even sleep last night?”

“Not you too, Sigurd,” he grunts, throwing a punch at his friend. “To answer your question—I did.”

“Sure,” Sigurd whistles, cocking his head in a heartbeat to evade the vicious counterpunch. “And for how many hours?”

“Is that important?” he responds, blocking Sigurd’s straight kick with a roundhouse kick. That very moment he quickly takes turn, swiping his left leg and makes a wide turn to take Sigurd at the nape.

“Oof,” Sigurd whimpers when his instep hammers against the back of his neck. “You hit hard as always.”

“You fight skilled as always too,” there is a glistening light in his eyes when he replies. “Also, four.”

“Four hours!” Sigurd gasps. “Eldie…”

“My sister thinks I’m on self-destruct,” he sighs— _“Fuck.”_

Sigurd frowns upon hearing the curse easily escape his best friend’s throat. This is definitely not the Eldigan he is familiar with. The Eldigan he knows since childhood is composed and will not roar unless his fuse is truly, truly burning. Besides, Eldigan does not need to cuss like that to get his point across—he has the ability to make people answer by asking question straight to the point… with taciturnity.

“You know, probably she is right.”

“I’m not a kid. She is.”

“I mean she lives with you, blonde,” Sigurd sighs again, evading another wheel kick Eldigan tries to land on him. “She must have seen something I did not. Something you yourself refuse to admit.”

“I go to work. I exercise. I defeat you,” Eldigan grumbles again.

“That one is not decided yet,” Sigurd chuckles, feeling tickled by his best friend’s line there. Eldigan wastes no time to pursue him with a series of rapid abstract punches, and he finds himself getting backed into a corner as Eldigan’s footwork slowly takes over the mat, gradually invading his personal space and creeping into his scope that it almost feels overpowering.

… Almost.

“Leave me be,” Eldigan growls a little bit. “I’m an adult.”

Sigurd’s eyes trace Eldigan’s movements like a hunting eagle. In a split decisive second he tilts his body a little bit, making a subtle diagonal motion to save his head from his friend’s straight punch. Eldigan quickly turns around, trying to compensate the penetrated defense by mustering a back-hand fist. But Sigurd acts quicker by skillfully unbalancing Eldigan’s legs through a quick, powerful leg sweep. The moment Eldigan loses his center since his pivoting leg can no longer hold him still, Sigurd follows up by positioning his crossed left arm against his right forearm, adding more pressure power to slam Eldigan in the chest with. Eldigan coughs. And falls onto the mat. And… loses.

“You are my friend, Eldie,” Sigurd seats himself beside his sprawling body while his blond-haired friend manages his breathing as he lies on the ground. “We are concerned.”

“Then don’t.”

“Then what happened between you and Ethlyn?” Sigurd asks again, gentler this time. “You know well such thought is cruel and will never cross her mind.”

“… Concerned older brother, huh?” Eldigan blurts, slapping Sigurd on the back with his towel.

“You will do the same about Lachesis,” Sigurd laughs, dropping his towel on his blond-haired friend until he gasps. “Don’t you trust me?”

Eldigan scoffs, peeling himself off the ground. “I’ve been deep helping my father, why are you worried?”

“Exactly why it hit you hard, Eldie.”

“Sigurd—“ Eldigan sighs, but holding his hands up regardless. “Alright. I don’t know where to begin.”

“That’s progress,” Sigurd throws a bottle of fresh orange juice at the blond-haired man.

“I don’t see any,” Eldigan spats, opening the bottle like he is ready to snap another person’s neck broken with it. “If anything, I keep seeing Papa’s face everywhere. On every inch of those paper stacks Alva brought to my desk. Closing my eyes I remember his bluish face. I recall how heavy his breaths were. I kept checking on my blouse feeling like traces of Lachesis’ liters of tears are still there.”

“You talked,” Sigurd replies calmly. “Progress.”

“Damn it, you are not supposed to sound like Quan here,” Eldigan mutters under his breath, bringing the bottle to his mouth to drink the juice, gloriously missing it. “… Fuck.”

“There, another,” Sigurd sympathetically pats his back, handing him his own bottle which he has not opened yet. “Eldie, this has to stop. Lachesis needs you—no, _you_ need you.”

“There is nothing unattended about Lachesis,” Eldigan stubbornly clams his palm against Sigurd’s bottle, making a nice, loud cracking sound that Sigurd cocks his eyebrow hearing that. “You think I’ll let my sister be hungry or sad? I let her skip school today, great brother, aren’t I?”

“Eldie.”

“I’ll buy you a drink after this. See, I’m not daft.”

“Eldie.”

“Do you like this brand a lot?”

“Eldie!”

Eldigan stops. Sigurd slaps his face with a towel again, and he sighs. “Thanks.”

“Let’s feed you after this,” Sigurd not-so-gently throws the towel over his mane. “I understand, really. If it is not for Ethlyn, I might have wetted my pants. I mean—adulting is hard.”

“My father left me a grand sum,” Eldigan murmurs, downing half of the juice before returning the bottle to Sigurd. “Or you can say the entire family fortune is in my pocket. Of course there are things I need to do, there are charities Ethlyn and her team would want me to look at, but…”

“Then let’s begin from there,” Sigurd says. “If you know where to start, it won’t be that hard, huh?”

“... I am no lion, Sigurd,” Eldigan blurts, earning Sigurd’s instant silence. Realizing what he has done, the blond-haired heir to his family business sighs again. “I do not want to do this.”

“Doing what?”

“Tracing my father’s footprints, what else?!” Eldigan’s tone increases, frustrated. “I need to do what I must do. And Lachesis needs my fortitude, not an emotional older brother. I’m not supposed to be fragile,” he hisses. “How about this then—I’ll get to work with Ethlyn once I can procure a new computer for Papa— _damn,_ MY office!”

“What happened to your computer?”

“Nothing happened to it, but the password…”

“Password?”

“And it’s not my computer. It’s Papa’s.”

Sigurd sighs. “Alright, how about this. You know I’m not well-versed at desk job either, but Quan is great at it. Let’s go out this weekend. You, me, great wine, and Quan with your paperwork.”

“Ethlyn did suggest me hiring an independent financial curator,” Eldigan ruffles his mane, looking angrier than an angry lion. “Perhaps that’s what I need to do first. But how—no, where?”

“You can headhunt,” Sigurd clasps his chin.

“And let people know that my father is dead-DEAD, Sigurd?”

“People _knew_ he is, Eldie. Don’t you read newspapers? They had obituaries about him.”

“No.”

“You are shiny.”

“You never washed your hair?”

“… Eldie.”

“I’m not repeating sob stories.”

“Who said you should?”

“Listen, I know my father has—“ Eldigan frowns, clenching his fists for a second. “Had—“

“It’s alright,” Sigurd pats his back again, patiently waiting for him to finish. “Yes, he has a great name.”

“Exactly,” Eldigan sighs. “And thank you.”

“Anytime and anything, friend,” Sigurd replies with a smile. “And?”

“Don’t you think it will sound rather uncanny to shun those who actually had liaison and history of working with—or for—Papa in the past if I posted open recruitment?” Eldigan smiles back—wryly though, as if the weight of the world _humps_ him on the back. “And with such workload and responsibility, this person has to be super smart and super reliable.”

“You are anxious.”

“Thank you, Sigurd-Obvious.”

“Whoever that person is, they will act as your assistant, won’t they?” Sigurd blurts. “It is time for you to shine as well—share what you like and what you don’t—your vision and everything, and then leave it to this curator to craft a plan for you.”

Eldigan pauses. Some moment later his eyes temper a little as a small smirk begins appearing on his face. “Are you sure you are still the same Sigurd I sparred with, or did I hit your nape too hard?”

“I’m bad at taking my own advice, anyway,” Sigurd grins back. “Which is why I need yours when I’m being dumb. And apparently, according to Ethlyn I am always dumb.”

“… If you would be so kind to tell Ethlyn I apologize for lashing out at her,” Eldigan ponders.

“Already forgiven before you even asked, Eldie,” Sigurd’s warm smile emerges, sneaking an arm around the blonde’s shoulder to squeeze him. “We understand. Even if you think we don’t, we are with you.”

“This family is now mine to lead and manage,” Eldigan mutters, more to himself than Sigurd. “Alright, perhaps it won’t hurt to meet up with Quan and Ethlyn like you planned…”

“Our Eldie is back,” Sigurd jams his fist against the blonde’s shoulder.

“Old Eldie will strike back,” Eldigan truly smirks now as he gently pushes his knee against Sigurd’s navel.

He chats up some more with Sigurd before disappearing into the bathroom to shower and change. Evening car lights begin pouring onto the street, and his lips part a little noticing Lachesis’ text he just received as he slings his duffel bag over his shoulder.

Lachesis 7:05 PM  
 _Eldie, I’m done with the violin lesson!_

“Sissi?” he speaks into the phone, sparing a grateful look at Sigurd who already heads out and holds the door for him. “Yeah. I was just done at the gym myself. I’ll pick you up—stay inside, alright? … Come on, Lachesis, I’m not chaperoning, it’s called valuing your safety.”

Sigurd snorts. “And you called me protective. Pot calling kettle _blond_.”

Eldigan playfully darts a hammer kick to shut up his friend.

“… And I think we can grab a bite before I get us home?” Eldigan blurts. Sigurd gasps, hearing Lachesis’ delighted _squeal_ on the phone.

“I’m so worried, Eldie!! I’m so glad you would want to eat!”

Eldigan curves his lips, an unlikely memory flashes in his mind. “Perhaps I owe that lady somehow.”

“Huh?”

“Huh? Ah, nothing. I’ll drag Sigurd with us too.”

“I don’t even care where, you eat and that is important!” Lachesis squeals on the phone again. “Alright, I’ll wait inside. Come fast, my steed.”

Eldigan pockets the phone back into his pants.

“What is this about you owing a lady?” Sigurd smirks.

“What isn’t?” Eldigan purposefully replies like he is bored. “To think I nearly scared a lady to death out of my road rage as well…”

“YOU road-raged?”

“Yeah?”

“… I’m so glad I got to knock you out today,” Sigurd sighs. “Right. Let’s go get the Nordion princess.”

Eldigan smiles a little. If only he could apologize to that lady in a peculiar car too—he had purposefully not saying anything—not only because the cars behind him behaved worse than hungry velociraptors; but also… the look on her eyes—it was so sad, so _ashen_ and bleak that he would feel so brazen to even stop to ask if she was alright for having read a woman’s face like that. And previously he told her he did not play guess or play reading ladies.

But still, his mind flies on the woman he encountered twice today—first at the café, then again during the road rage. The woman with the softest wavy brown hair he has ever seen so far—the woman with gentle eyes with a streak of contained unyielding spirit inside who ties her hair with a red ribbon, the woman with elegant taste judging from the cardigan she wears. The woman with shapey legs judging from the fitting pencil skirt he saw at the café—

Eldigan coughs.

_Fuck,_ he ponders.

This time Sigurd does not hear it, however.


	4. Not Like This

Eldigan forces himself to smile when his staff announces there are guests waiting for him. The triplets Alva and his brothers have been acquainted with the entire Nordion household since he was a child. The triplets' father is the go-to person Papa Nordion would call both at the office and not; the reliable subordinate their family could rely onto even when it concerns their food. He hates to admit it, but his family, being one of those so-called old families with old money, they said—possesses such connection, with people of generations working for a Nordion from time to time like it is a tradition worthy to defend. Such culture didn't change even after Eldigan's mother died. Papa Nordion apparently wasn't really interested going back to the dating market. Nordion children probably grew up deprived of a motherly touch, but they surely had a trusted uncle to consult.

Regardless, his late father was a busy man who ran his household the way he ran his company. Eldigan does not remember the last time they ever truly hugged like father and son, although—much to his relief, he is sure that the late Papa Nordion cherished Lachesis to the point of nearly spoiling her. Still delving in grief, he lets out a soft sigh, recalling those times where it became clearer and clearer to him that if anyone was allowed to disturb Papa from anything, it would be Lachesis.

Eldigan recalls something else, however. Like how his eyebrows would twitch upon hearing Papa’s gentle call—“Yes, Princess? What do you need from Daddy?” when Lachesis, from the family landline, reached Papa in the middle of important meeting. Barely around an hour ago he got a scolding because he, as the oldest child—no, the _son,_ should know better than behaving _wildly_ like that.

If he was to be honest, he had no idea what wild there meant. He did understand that Papa wanted to build him to be a man worthy of the family—the name, the status, the fortune, someone worthy of _him_ as the father. And truly that Lachesis was seven when it happened, but he, being fifteen, was still technically a child too, and as an adult he recognizes that… yes, actually there are many things to easily confuse a child, even if said child is too, technically, a teenager who just hit his puberty. Looking back, however, he would also sincerely agree that it does not absolve the fact that teenage boys are assholes as well. He basks in the memory of Sigurd telling him that fifteen to twenty is basically the age range when people are either being stupid or being assholes—or both. So while he might have been a dumb boy back then, the good news is that he is not alone.

“That means the other boy you called asshole isn’t alone as well,” ah, Quan, the ever-thinker Quan, did not wait long to voice his own opinion as well. “Did you say that to everyone, Sigurd? If so, then technically if Eldie can feel better for not being the only dumbass in this world, that asshole can say that he is not the only asshole in the entire universe as well."

“We do not talk about that, Quan,” Sigurd then shushed him.

“As the brain of the group, I can ask,” Quan grinned.

“Brain of the group, he said,” Eldigan, fifteen, and allegedly definitely not a dumbass nor an asshole like other teenage boys out there, chimed in. “Brain of the group does not consecutively face off with that new kid from the block for five days and screams food war.”

“He initiated it,” Quan remarked sourly. “Anyway, Eldie—the name’s Travant.”

“He only wanted your smoothie,” Eldigan replied.

“And that is my private property,” Quan countered.

“Now you even make a rich boy like Eldie look like an angel. What happened to the law of nature? Rich boys are supposed to be the asshole ones,” Sigurd taunted.

“Depends,” Quan offered an answer. “If it is you? Nonexistent.”

“It’s just a smoothie,” Eldigan rolled his eyes.

“And it’s still mine,” Quan fumed, leaving his other two friends speechless.

Eldigan checks his appearance once again. Alva—or as Lachesis put it, the handyman in a suit—did not say who came that evening. But exactly because he did not that Eldigan can immediately tell it’s none other than Quan and Sigurd, picking him up as expected. If it is someone else, Alva and his twin brothers would say. But Quan and Sigurd are his childhood friends, who grew up with the triplet's presence in the household just the way he did.

When he was a child, Alva and his brothers helped around the house to garden and clean while the worker hired by Papa Nordion cooked and did laundry. The busier Papa got, the triplet's father began to do more work for the Nordions as well, making the boys befriended the heir and his sister. Sometimes they drove Lachesis when she had practices. Sometimes the triplet's father drive Eldigan around. Yet extracurricular school activities or simple hangouts with their friends, there is no mistake—for Eldigan, the triplets are just as reliable as their father is to his late father. Lachesis would make it clear that she dislike chaperons, but Papa kept saying it was for safety, to which the heiress could only nod. He, however, chewed his protests straight into the chest.

Great men observe, Papa said. Great men observe instead of complaining, and that, supposedly, according to Papa, differentiates a manchild and a grown-up.

Eldigan reminded Papa that he was twenty-two. Papa reminded him that five, seventeen, or even twenty-two, he would still be Eldigan—Eldigan _Nordion_ —and it would not change.

“How come you are entrusted with many things?” one day Lachesis, with fiery determination burning her brightly from the inside, barged into his room. At first it started as a venting session. She was fifteen and growing, and dumb Papa was too dumb to realize that teen girls needed room for themselves—and no, not for some secret agenda such as establishing world order or something similar—but Papa had Alva's father ready with the car for what was supposed to be her mall-venturing adventure. Eldigan, not knowing the brewing cold war, easily walked into his room, dumping a box of burgers he got with Sigurd on the way from watching rugby match on top of his desk—only to be ambushed by Lachesis.

“Give me like five minutes to take off my shoes and everything so I can answer,” Eldigan relented.

“No,” Lachesis folded her arms, with something falling from behind her back that it caught his attention.

“What is that, Sissi?”

“My fucking sword, Eldie. Three minutes left!”

“Darn, in what timezone?” Eldigan quickly slipped himself off the jersey he had been wearing, throwing his socks onto the bed. Tearing himself off the undershirt he was wearing, he quickly raided his closet.

“Eugh, gross,” Lachesis snickered upon seeing the fossils he left scattering around. “Back to the point. It’s because you are a man, isn’t it?”

At that time, Eldigan paused. He hated to admit it—he hated to do so, but…

“Is that not because I’m older?” he muttered in a low tone. “Almost eight years older too.”

“The triplets' dad would be driving you around if your name was Hilda Friege,” Lachesis spatted.

“What problem do you have with a Hilda Friege?” Eldigan cocked his eyebrow, wisely removing the offending socks from Lachesis’ keen eyes.

“Everything. She’s a bitch, but that’s not the point,” Lachesis sighed, dropping her weight onto his bed. “Listen—it’s because you are a man, isn’t it? I hate everything…”

“Sit here, Sissi,” Eldigan gestured at her. “Also— _shit,_ those socks are branded.”

“Still gross. It’s not the brand, dumbass, it’s because of you.”

“Nice to hear that,” he responded sullenly.

“… Do you love me?” Lachesis spoke softer, slowly dragging herself to where he sat. “I’m not your full-blooded sister, you know. I mean like, have you ever felt weirded because suddenly Papa decided to take me living with you after my mother died? Have you ever… begrudged me? Like, you think I stole Papa away from you. I mean—do you hate me?”

Eldigan paused. Lachesis grew even more restless because her question remained unanswered. He tried to say something, realizing that out of everything Papa prepared him for, the older lion never touched the subject of… emotion. So he could only look back at his half-sister, mouth gaped without anything coming out—anything, and Lachesis, realizing he was probably going to be a statue, anyway, fumed, throwing the dirty socks and jersey at his face before rubbing her hands as if she just touched a pile of dirt. However he managed to run after her before she left his room, hand gently clasping on her wrist that he pulled her back, bending his head a little so he could look his sister in the eyes.

“This question scared me more than your arrival,” he chuckled. “No, Sissi.”

“You are lying,” Lachesis muttered under her breath. “You said that just to appease me.”

“Wanna hear something? Sometimes I’d gladly trade place with you,” Eldigan sighed, grabbing the burger box he previously dumped onto the desk. “At least you can call whenever you want to.”

Lachesis paused. But when his half-sister stole one burger right before his eyes, he knew that Lachesis was not as disgruntled as she had been unlike prior.

“Sir Eldie?”

“Just a minute!” he shouts at the door, noticing Alva’s voice from the outside. Seems that still doesn't change either—the way he is called, the respect given... even though Alva is someone he grew up with. Something in him punches his gut. Being reminded that he is a Nordion through and through by the son of his late father's right-hand man doesn't seem to be an appealing concept... or perhaps because his father is no longer there to be _the_ Nordion.

Throwing a black blazer over a white shirt, Eldigan quickly fixes his belt, smoothing his jeans and reaches for a pair of leather shoes from a rack in the closet. Grabbing his keys and everything else, Eldigan banishes his phone into the depth of his jeans pocket, contemplating his room as if it was his first time being there.

 _This room suddenly feels too big,_ he ponders.

He is wealthy—no question asked, just like how well-off Quan and his family are, and Sigurd, too, despite his casualness, is _comfortable._ They are one of those young elites who would pass as ‘rich kids on Instagram’, probably, and bless their souls for not doing that. His room is comfortable and spacious. It isn’t just the bed or the computer on a desk with three tall neatly-arranged book shelves standing at the other corner; his bed is pretty big too, befitting his tall figure. He has his own bathroom just like Lachesis does, and although his closet may not be as packed as Lachesis’, it is still there, a completely separated room one can reach from a connecting door in his bedroom. The Nordion family house has everything needed to pamper its well-off occupants, anyway—air conditioner for the summer, fireplace for the winter, big flat-screen TV, a nice kitchen he hardly ever used himself, putting his faith into Alva's brothers to serve his family with the kind of standard demanded by Papa Nordion.

Eldigan traces the floor as if he is trying to evade landmines. He chastises himself, repeating the mantra he did when he went to the law firm and met Ethlyn— _do not be afraid._ This time he isn’t. After all, it’s just his best friends trying to give him solid advice because he feels like bumping hard into a dead end. After all, it’s just Saturday night with Sigurd and Quan, something they have done many times even before they reached the age when they could grow a beard.

… First Saturday night to go out with Sigurd and Quan after Papa Nordion passed away, though.

Eldigan opens the door. Alva is still smiling at him; his brown hairs glisten under the lamp—that sight and the smile are familiar as always, but still make him feel uneasy somehow. Suddenly he feels like being transported into the past—again, as a teenage boy, and this time dumb _and_ an asshole for wanting to fake… oh, he does not know, what kind of illness which can cancel what is supposed to be a good night with the bros? He tried faking measles once when he did not want to practice piano. And it beautifully lasted for some two-minutes of glory because Papa, cackling, reminded him that it could not be since he vaccinated his kids.

“Uh—Papa, I have carpal tunnel,” he tried again, another day, because thinking of Chopin’s _Fantaisie_ made his stomach turn. He still felt his fingers curling like a witch’s curse after the last practice three days prior, and at that time, he did not want to hear anything more from a composer with a cute name such as Frederic Chopsticks.

“Find something logical enough for _me_ ,” Papa calmly replied. “And no—since when were you an artist?”

“Con artist,” Lachesis snickered from the sofa before yelping. “Papa, Eldie threw a cushion at my face! He wanted to _murder_ me!”

“Papa, I can’t go to practice because the stocks are falling.”

“Interesting. And what do you play piano with?”

“… Hands?” he stared at his father, dumbfounded.

“Perfect! Get in the car, son.”

Eldigan did his best to voice his feelings—through an exasperated sigh, in D major. Perhaps.

And now everything feels like coming back to bite him in the brain. Eldigan regrets something—he should have asked Sigurd when his blue-haired friend vented that he was absolutely ‘brain-fucked’.

“It’s math,” at that time, he deadpanned.

“And exactly why my mind is no longer virgin,” Sigurd nodded. He patted his blue-haired friend in a sympathetic manner, noticing how forlorn the older Chalphy was. The last time Sigurd had such expression, it was when Ethlyn, agreeing with Lachesis, stated that his fringes looked like a horse mane.

“As if it was ever,” Quan snorted.

“This is my brain, not a smoothie,” Sigurd sulked. “And it’s still mine.”

Quan sighed.

“Eldieee!” Sigurd’s cheery voice feels like a total betrayal of the sorrowful atmosphere which still engulfs the entire Nordion household. Sigurd dresses casually as always—t-shirt and chino pants that it will be more than understandable if he got mistaken as a college kid. Quan has earth-colored military-style shirt on him, topped with a plaid outerwear.

“Got your wallet?” he asks mindlessly, trying to subdue the doubts which emerge suddenly.

“We can definitely treat you,” Sigurd, understandingly, pats his shoulder.

“No, Mr. Chalphy—in case they card you,” Eldigan returns the line, tempted to mess with him.

“Ass,” Sigurd mutters begrudgingly. “How are you, Lachesis?”

Lachesis does not move from the sofa, still hugging on the big cushion. She simply tilts her head to look at him, giving a solemn nod with a dry smile. “Hi, Siggy.”

“Oh, man,” Sigurd says. “Is she still…”

“Well…” Eldigan cuts in, shrugging.

“And you,” Quan, who maintains silence because Sigurd did all the greetings, chimes in. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

“Ass,” Quan repeats what Sigurd said in the same manner. “I’m serious here, Eldie.”

“It’s textbook English.”

“Saying ‘oh no, I’m totally not and in fact I want to cry’ is English too,” Quan shakes his head. “Well?”

“Oh no, I’m totally not and in fact I want to cry,” Eldigan repeats with a flat tone.

“Ass,” Lachesis mutters from the sofa, earning finger guns from Sigurd. “Take him out. He’s brooding.”

“I have Ethlyn,” Quan replies.

“… Ass,” Lachesis sighs. “Why are grown men so dumb?”

Eldigan yields anyway, leading his friends outside after telling the triplets that if Lachesis maintains that hollow expression until past midnight and still refusing to eat, he has granted full permission to order any restaurant she wants or throw a grenade against the TV because she might have been brainwashed. Either way, the triplets reassures him to make Lachesis feel as comfortable as possible, and that he, too, can call Alva at any given hour if he cannot drive.

Eldigan feels so guilty when Lachesis shoots him a warning look, but that guilt quickly dissolves into a puddle of… annoyance when Sigurd and Quan haul him into the passenger seat of Quan’s sedan. “What in the _fucking_ world of extinct dinosaurs under _bastard_ meteor hails?”

“You road-raged and now you cussed?” Sigurd looks at him.

“Of course. Why am I being chaperoned? I can drive, _sweetheart._ ”

“Aww, that’s what he said,” Sigurd tries to dissipate Eldigan’s anger, earning the latter’s sullen look.

“Because the front passenger seat is Ethlyn’s throne,” Quan purposefully musters a flat tone to respond to Eldigan’s indignant one as he moves to reach for the driver’s seat. “Now be good, Eldigan Nordion.”

“Be Eldiegood,” Sigurd nods.

“Not another word. This is kidnapping,” Eldigan sours, hammering his elbow against Sigurd’s ribs.

“We just want you to feel Eldiegreat,” Sigurd coughs.

“Eldigan?”

“What, Ethlyn, want to fight as well?”

“If you maim my brother, I’ll _mutilate_ you,” the younger Chalphy smiles. “Be Eldiegooder.”

Eldigan surrenders, begrudgingly shuts his mouth anyway. Quan’s radio plays familiar songs—songs they used to love to bang loudly in college, songs they would play until the decibel measurement could even deafen a bat, songs he would play too when he became Eldiegentle because of a first heartbreak. Sigurd occasionally sings the lyrics, nudging him to sing along while Ethlyn and Quan humor him with what can be called as ‘weird shit we heard in fast food joints’.

“Come on, Eldie,” Sigurd finally relents, dropping off the goofy act as the car makes another turn. “It’s alright. Grieve with us. We are here out of goodwill and concern.”

“Well,” Eldigan starts, prompting Quan to quickly kill his radio, making Ethlyn halt her another story, as well as silencing Sigurd right away. This is it, right?—he thinks, eying his friends one by one from his seat. This is one of those movie instances where he will pour his heart out, end it with some ugly sobbing and then his friends will say something gold—yet touching at the same time—before hugging him. Right, this should be it. What are they again, a party of Teletubbies?

“We are here,” Quan says. “I can’t turn around, though—I’m driving.”

“Keep doing that, babe,” Ethlyn quickly says, darting a venomous look at Sigurd. “Not another joke.”

“That’s what she said,” Quan mouths, yelping because Ethlyn pinches his earlobe.

“… Yeah. Well,” Eldigan clears his throat. “Who still made a mixtape in this day and age?”

Quan shares another look with Ethlyn while Sigurd shoots a concerned look at him. Eldigan sits straight still with folded arms and flat expression, returning the stares he receives. “What?” he says, blankly fishing the phone out of his pocket, making a quick text to ask if Lachesis wants food.

“This is concerning indeed,” Quan hits the brake, expecting the blond-haired friend will definitely say something. But Eldigan merely returns his phone into his jeans pocket, giving another innocent but blank look he darts at his friends. “Eldie…”

Sigurd clutches on him. Eldigan scoots away uneasily, but his blue-haired friend plants his hands on his shoulders, giving him little to no choice but facing the older Chalphy back now. “Eldie. Listen to me,” he says. “Please, by God—I don’t know how to put it, but… be sad.”

“Yes,” Quan echoes from the driver’s seat. “This is unhealthy. You are unhealthy being like this.”

“I poop well, though.”

“… Ass,” Ethlyn mutters.

“That’s where it came out!”

“ELDIGAN HEZUL NORDION!”

He gulps. And the pink-haired lady that is now Quan’s girlfriend huffs. “What can we do for you?” she asks, her tone is almost pleading that it breaks his heart hearing her like that. It is as if she is kneeling, beseeching him. Like Lachesis when his sister tried stopping him from hitting the nurse who put defibrillator on Papa—the very same nurse who tried bringing Papa back… and failed.

He dislikes this. He does not like the tone Ethlyn used on him—and no, not when she called his full name like that. He recalls Lachesis’ hollow look back home. He recalls Lachesis’ pleas for him to calm down, at the hospital seconds after they pronounced Papa’s death. He recalls the Lady with Beautiful Legs in Pencil Skirt who backed away when he let his rawness spoke—that he wanted to punch something… someone… instead of actually helping her.

Well, he would, and he did want. But first of all, punching something.

“Eldie,” the younger Chalphy calls again, using the endearing nickname the way he is known in the family. Her lips are tight and her eyes look dark that for a moment, he feels so guilty.

“Ethlyn,” he responds. “Ethlyn Chalphy, Esquire. What’s wrong, Little Sigurd?”

“Let’s just get the food first,” Sigurd cuts in. “You have the privilege of an emperor today, Eldie. Decide what we should eat? We’ll just take you anywhere you want. What do you want to eat? We can grab some fresh juice too, I bet. I almost forgot your favorite fruit—orange, like the gym juice? Or…”

Eldigan looks at his hands, recalling the kind Madam Pencil Skirt with utmost compassion who gave him ginger ale and cleaned the sauce off his chicken wings. Strangely he did feel a bit refreshed, anyway, perhaps the ginger ale has that wondrous effect—or that she is a witch, but based on his knowledge, dumb men of the past hated smart women of the past so much that they burned a bunch just because half did not know how medicine worked while half did not know that blacksmithing or metal-forging contained chemical reactions. Or not knowing how uteri worked. Either way, the women got burnt, and Madam Pencil Skirt was right that the ginger ale helped with his digestive system.

Eldigan Nordion, Papa’s pride, a kickboxer practitioner of twenty years at his prime age of twenty-six who loves Felix Mendelssohn more than Frederic Chopsticks—Chopin—and thinks that Sergei Prokofiev totally could pass as a deadlift guy—is proud of his latest achievement…

… Eating food?

Lachesis said he should be. He did not say it took a beautiful stranger to help him with his food…

“Eh,” he says. _HHHHRRRGHHH_ —the lion within him growls in discreet like the chained beast that it is. He wonders—even if he wants to cry, his tears will not come out, anyway—it’s as if he exhausted his soul at that hospital room. And really—oh, this casual blazer is black? He did not even notice. He hardly even noticed that things come in color as well.

“Eldie?” Sigurd calls again, gentler this time.

“Ginger ale,” he blurts.

“Alright, let’s find a place which serves ginger ale,” Quan quickly takes control, shifting his voice into a cheery tone. “And with what?”

He pauses. _With what?_ —Quan asked. He glances outside—neon lights and billboards blink before him, with vehicles around them speeding. People at the sides of the street their car passes by look so merry and cheerful, with some couples holding hands and even kiss. _Saturday, alright,_ he mutters, suddenly feeling his stomach tight. Saturday. The day they buried Papa.

“Stop here,” he says.

“Awh, yiss,” Sigurd balls his fist. “You know this place?”

“No,” he deadpans.

_One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…_

“It’s okay, we’ll find something nice, I’m sure,” Ethlyn quickly responds. Eldigan wanted to stop, anyway, and that is a good start. So everything is going to be better, right?

“Mm-hmm,” the blond-haired Nordion heir responds. Why is it yellowish-dark so suddenly?

_Lord God, he’s gone so fast—_

“Oookay. Wanna try that one?” Sigurd cheerfully opens the passenger door, gesturing him to come out.

_Breathe, Papa!!_

“Mmmm.”

_Eldie, you can’t hit a nurse!_

“Eldie?”

_Step aside, Lachesis—_

“Mmmh—“

He tears himself from his friends, running to reach the bushes around some building he does not register at this point. He does not even know what he just hit—gum? Wild weeds? Who cares, though. Who cares—

“Eldie!”

He does not care. At least his stomach does not, because it spins and somersaults repeatedly until his insides feel like being mixed in a blender. He throws his head, clutching on his blond strands. People about to enter the building glance at him, muttering expressions of disgust. He forces an apologetic smile, ready with an explanation— _I’m sorry, I’m not feeling too well tonight, I—_

“Yuck. Probably drunk.”

 _No_ , _this time I am not,_ _I swear—_ he thinks as he crouches down.

 _EEEEEEEUUUUURRRG_ —his stomach says.

Eldigan Nordion, twenty-six, Papa’s pride and joy, is violently vomiting near a night club on a Saturday night. Papa also got buried on a Saturday night, though, but the clubbers do not know about it for sure.

********

  


She grabs her phone when it rings for the tenth time. Sighing, she forces herself to scoot around the bed, finding her remote control getting stuck under one of her pillows. Monotonously killing her own TV, she picks up without even bothering to check who that is. Well, she figures, if she has successfully dodged the phone for nine times, perhaps she could give credit to one determined soul who managed to make the tenth call, anyway.

Yes, yes, determined, pestering—what is the difference?

“Hello, I’m Grahnye de Brún and you have reached my voice mail. Leave your message after the beep!” she mutters on the phone. _Creative, Grahnye,_ she thinks. What a joke. That is supposed to sound like a machine, not _Hi, I’m Grahnye and welcome to my crib._

“Grahnye?”

She sighs. She knows who that is. And this is not even a crib—this is a capsizing boat. Looking around her own bed she can see the remnants of savagery committed there—four instant ramen noodle packs, a paper plate because suddenly she had this urge to eat two cake slices at the same time. Of course she also had the urge to murder her boss, but that is not the point and we are not talking about that.

… Alright, now we are talking about that.

Grahnye lies still. She has been operating autopilot after returning from the office that day. At first it was heavenly, of course, waking up at ten, watching cartoons, wondering how many physicians getting the urge to fistfight the cartoon characters for constantly defying science. Eating leftover cakes also felt great… at least until she realized her fridge was almost empty, and that cake was probably a week-old, potentially giving her diarrhea.

But who cares again? She was hospitalized and her office did not. Her boss did not. Her asshole coworker did not. By giving herself diarrhea, perhaps she has done herself a favor—bestowing the virtue of being sick. What if she packs the evidence to send Elliot?

“Gross,” she mutters. “What happened to me? I’m a woman of God.”

 _God of disappointment and war,_ she thinks sadly. Sobbing for days, lying in nothing but old pajamas or underwear do not exude the image of a professional career woman. Those movies? They are lying—or so she thought. Where is another emotionally-dysfunctional person to sleep with like in those movies? None, right? See, those movies are lying—

“… Grahnye, dear, I know you are there.”

“No, I am not—shit,” she fumes. “Mom?”

“Are you alright?” the voice from the other side of the line speaks. “I’ve been wanting to check up on you since you got hospitalized. How are you feeling now?”

 _Destroyed._ “Great!” she replies. “Bye Mom, need to work.”

“No.”

“Mom?”

“Who brought a cat to the office?”

Grahnye glances outside, finding the handsome-but half-dead programmer that is her apartment neighbor with ungodly working hours waving at her while trying to get his cat off the window. _Nice, there’s a cute guy living nearby and he saw me in pajamas. How am I still fucking alive?_

“Service kitty, Mom.”

“And who delivered milk with a bicycle bell to the office?”

Grahnye looks outside, definitely finding the milk boy delivering for the elderly couple whose house face her apartment. She sighs again. “Yes, Mom, I got fired.”

“What?”

“Love you, smooch.” She quickly cuts the line, throwing her phone under the pillow, imagining herself suffocating Elliot—and probably Chagall. Slow but sure, yet painful. _You like that, huh? You like that?_ Turning on the TV one more time, she tries to concentrate on what’s playing there, finding that words pass her like fleeting dream that she begins to sincerely question her own coherence at everything—why do these people speak foreign language all of a sudden? Also, is that a news anchor or a lobster?

Her hand digs into nothingness, making her to look down. Darn, she ate all the chips already. Let’s see what else her fridge has that she can take to instantly kill her—ah, soy milk! Let’s put some beer in it! … Oh, the soy milk is expired. Now _that_ can kill.

Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five, and allegedly contemplated to die by soy milk, returns to her bed, passing the mirror from her vanity table by the corner. Her eyebrows twitch upon seeing her own reflection—who is this again, another lobster? And by God, her bed has never been _this_ messy before. Not only that, a regular Grahnye on a regular day detests messy bed. She does not care what those hipsters with camera say about aesthetic feature and whatnot—messy bed is ugly, because the first thing she wants after returning home is to relax, not having to clean the mess she left off.

Home. There’s rent needing paid. Fridge that needs refilling. Car which needs a repair shop.

 _Grahnye, what happened?—_ She reads the text her mother sent her. Her mind races again. Perhaps she should go back home to Leonster. To the countryside of Leonster like Elliot brazenly suggested. Chagall said she isn’t fitting to be here, anyway. Out of place forever, huh—in society where she feels like nobody wants her, where she is under the impression of awkwardness no matter what she tries.

Fired, fired, fired…

Grahnye peeks on her phone once again. Will that make Elliot happy, if she decides to return to Leonster? Does she _want_ to make Elliot happy? Definitely not. But does staying sound like a good option? Not really. And her parents back then were pretty adamant about her living on her own, knowing well what that body can and cannot do. Does she want to make her parents happy? Yes—yes, sure, yes. But this way? Probably not. And shit—why must her parents’ happiness related to Elliot’s happiness? No way. She is not going to accept _That’s what I said_ from either Elliot or her parents. She is twenty-five.

Twenty-five, broke, fired, frail, ugly—

She drags herself into the bathroom, turning on the shower, throwing her clothes into a basket. The sensation of warm water pouring over her feels healing a little bit—if only she is not sobbing so hard that the water gets into her eyes and mouth. Her throat is burning a little, but by the time she applies some shampoo over her hair, her head begins to clear. The TV sound from the outside can be heard faintly in the bathroom, and she realizes nobody speaks in foreign language there—it’s English, pure English, and definitely, nobody there is talking about lobsters. Or looking like one too, she bets.

She rinses, covering herself with a towel. Now that feels nice. Feels nice. Especially when her hairdryer begins to work for her. A mass of soft wavy brown hair sprawls, framing her face, creating a spectacular view even if she is to say so herself—from what she sees in the mirror. _I’m not ugly,_ she thinks, beginning to apply a primer on her face, followed by other usual stuff—foundation, concealer… some color on her lips make a difference because she is no longer the pathetic girl in pajamas in the afternoon. And let’s get that tropical Sabrina-style sundress with Princess Jasmine-look-a-like sleeves. This isn’t what she typically wears, though—but one does not get fired often, nor does one wear pajamas until four PM in the afternoon, grossly sobbing after snacking like the world is going to end tomorrow. And one does not typically imitate an answering machine to avoid talking to her mother as well… right?

 _It’s just groceries,_ her conscience says.

 _Yeah, and so what?_ —Her other side argues. The Devil be damned, the Devil always wins, though. Hell has neon tiles and infinite margarita supplies called Vengeance Juice—she prefers it than the Heaven because to be there she has to be angelic-level nice including forgiving Elliot and Chagall. For now, at least, she’d rather take time down there dancing with condemned dictators, probably.

She grabs her things. Before she goes out, however, she decides to make a change. First thing first her windows need to be closed, so…

“Hello,” she casually waves at her half-dead yet handsome programmer, whose cat perching on his shoulders as he faces a computer. He saw her in pajamas? Now she’ll make sure it is not his first and last impression of her. The programmer turns around. His cat slips onto the floor, with him dropping a bottle of soda he has on his desk.

She grins. And the hollow feeling returns, making her bite back her lips as she leaves the house—she needs a fruitful plan. Soon.


End file.
